


Sweet Morphine

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aging Angst, Angst, Drinking to Cope, Eventual Romance, Everyone in Radiator Springs is Gay, Excessive Drinking, Exhibitionism, Florida Heat Induced madness, Humanized Cars, Internalized Homophobia, Living Together, M/M, Mentions of AIDS/HIV, Mentions of past homophobia, Mentor/Protégé, Miami, Miscommunication, Mutual Masturbation, No one has HIV but there's discussion, POV Alternating, Pining, Rentboy Lightning McQueen, Roommates, Self-Discovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swimming Pools, This is not a Sugar Daddy fic, but there are definitely hints of that sort of dynamic, tbh this is very much a Long Hot Summer/Cat on a Hot Tin Roof sort of story, where the heat is it's own character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Maybe there’s an arrangement to be had, between two lonely men who refuse to listen to anyone, but might hold their own gaze in the mirror, if only for a moment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OH BOY here is it, my baby, my heart, the fastest thing I've ever written! My one-month novel! I am SO PROUD of this story and SO HAPPY with the way it came out and I cannot wait to share it with those of you reading! It really came from a place for pure inspiration and freedom and it just...fell out of me. I got to say everything I wanted to say, which I haven't had the pleasure of doing in a long time. 
> 
> When I wrote in the 1D fandom, towards the end of my time there my writing had become increasingly stilted and censored. Even though I didn't want to let Fandom climate and judgement effect what I meant to say, it inevitably happened because there was such tremendous backlash for any unpopular characterization or content. My stories became influenced by my desire to avoid conflict and they stopped feeling like me. This has been such an amazing revisitation of the sort of content I want to create: messy and honest and real and raw. Hardly anyone is reading in this fandom and there are no rules or conventions so I can just!!! Write! About what I want to write about. So, as a result this fic is long and meandering and complicated. The characters are imperfect, their communication is imperfect, their desires are imperfect. And I fucking LOVE THEM FOR IT. It felt so good to create and explore characters I really cared for. I love these boys so so so much and I really hope you all do, too. 
> 
> The story is complete and I will be posting chapters regularly, I also created a playlist for those of you who might want to listen to me of the song which inspired this fic! It's called "Kissing Clouds and Gods" on spotify. 
> 
> Huge thank you to my beta Jen who edited this whole massive thing even though it's about cars, and a huge thank you to Isabelle who is doing art for it and who is the best and most enthusiastic enabler/cheerleader. This story would not have come out so quickly and enthusiastically if not for her, and my amazing wife, who care about Doc and Lightning as much as I do.  
> I love you guys!!!

CHAPTER 1

The first time you see Lightning McQueen, he awakens something long dead in you. Reaches out and guts you with the fierce, angry blue of his eyes, twists your insides up on a spit, leaving you hollowed and gasping for a moment, wondering how such a perfect, poisoned picture from your past could end up here, in Radiator Springs, where you came to _escape_ boys like him.

Sharp-featured and arrogant, beautiful and breakable. The selfish, wild sort of boy who thinks he’s the center of the universe and everything else revolves around him, caught in his orbit like bits of metal filament drawn from the sand with a magnet. The sort of boy who believes he’s immortal, until he spins out at two hundred miles an hour, rolls, and somehow comes out alive but never the same again. Shattered in places and put back together all wrong. 

You used to be this sort of boy, except you _knew_ that you could die. Not in the car, maybe. But somewhere. In a shit bar in a shit town, between another man's thighs after he came, dragged for miles behind a truck, face kicked in in an alleyway. Always in places and under circumstances that leave you unrecognizable, a mess of blood and bone and no one to identify the body because you haven’t spoken to your folks or your brother since you ran away from home at seventeen and ended up in Thomasville, North Carolina, to start a new life, to climb behind the wheel of a race car and speed away from everything you once knew, leave it all obscured in a rooster tail of dust. 

When Montgomery Clift crashed his ’55 Bel Air after leaving Liz Taylor’s house, his face was so ruined that everyone thought he was dead. He was choking, barely breathing, and Liz reached down into his throat and fished two teeth out in a mess of blood, the only reason he didn’t die there in her arms. 

You had no Liz Taylor to clear your airway when you flipped the Hornet. You had three Piston Cups, a fancy paint job getting scratched to just short of nothingness on the asphalt track, and at least five other racers who had already threatened to kill you in locker rooms and under bleachers, always, _always_ in shadow, after they’d already come, speeding off and leaving you spitting grit. You were alone. 

In your courtroom with his toned, freckled arms cuffed in front of him and his eyes flashing like he might threaten to kill you, too, Lightning McQueen is also alone. You can smell it on him like the ghost of liquor. 

There’s a moment when you’re choking--on blood, on teeth--just from the sight of him. But then you recover. You always do. 

At first, you try and send him away because having him here in your town will only bring up ugly, half-decayed things from your past that you _need_ to stay buried. Bloated corpses bobbing up from a river bed, disfigured and water-logged, things you have fought to keep beneath the surface, no matter how swollen and buoyant they threaten to become. He’ll kick it all up, though, make a mess of rot on your doorstep, and you cannot have that. You love Radiator Springs because it’s lonely, like you, its former glory hidden behind layers of dust. He’ll ruin it all.

Sally swoops in at the last minute, though, just like she always does when she notices you masquerading your selfishness as concern for the future of Radiator Springs. She demands he stay and repair the damage he caused, like he won’t cause _more_ _damage,_ like he isn't the incarnation of things cracked and bleeding and smoking and feral. You _recognize_ him even if you don’t know him by name, have actively forgotten it from every race you watched in secret, the pretty blond rookie with his stupid catchphrase, his cunning, smirking mouth. He’s out of control, and you don’t want him here. Furthermore, he’s beautiful, and you’re breakable. There are patterns you _always_ fall into.

But Sally doesn’t know the ways in which you’re weak, just like she doesn’t know the world he comes from, so Lightning McQueen stays. He’ll remain here until he smooths the jagged valley he made in the middle of the road, long and ugly like a scar, never mind the twin he’ll inevitably carve into you in the process. 

You’re used to scars, you’re littered in them like a dirty beach. But you’re old, too, and you aren’t sure how many more times you can crash and roll and emerge from the wreckage breathing. 

—-

You fucking _hate_ Radiator Springs, at first. 

But try as you might, you can’t hate Doc Hudson with the same blind, stupid self-righteousness that you hate everything and everyone else in this shit-kicking little town, with its cow and asphalt stink, its small people with their boring lives, their dying businesses. Everything about it crawls by at a pace that makes your heart pound, your skin prickle in sweat in this way that reminds you of being five years old and waiting in an endless winding line to ride the roller coaster at Coney Island. You baked in the heat, finished your soft-serve before it melted down your hand, and then you waited for what felt like hours while it roared on and on and over and over again right there in front of you, taunting you with the promise of undiluted _fun_ while you were forced to watch with sticky hands and a sunburn from your mom’s arms when your feet got too tired from all the vacation walking. You felt like it was _going_ somewhere, like it would disappear into the rage of the sea if you didn’t ride it soon, and that’s how you feel about California. Like it’ll just fall off the country and plummet into the ocean, but you’ll be stuck here, driving the world’s slowest paver, dreaming of things that you’ll never have, all of them swirling in the Pacific in a slick of glitter and salt and gasoline, painted in Dinoco blue. 

No one here matters, no one here has any fucking idea of what’s waiting for you in California. Dinoco and everything that comes along with it. Girls, guts, glory, and, most importantly, _fucking money._ So much of it that you can _buy_ friends, stuff your wounds with cash until they stop bleeding, buy yourself a pool or a Ferrari or a horse or a model girlfriend, whatever else it is that people need to be happy, to stop hurting, to stop being _lonely._

Maybe you can’t hate Doc because he wants you gone as badly as you want to leave. You can tell by the way he looks at you, long-suffering and cold, his eyes narrowed behind the flashing lenses of his glasses as he walks to work in the morning and shoots you judgmental glances while you’re strapped into Bessie and driving her so slowly that it makes you want to blow your fucking brains out. 

There's a weird, silent solidarity that you develop with Doc over this. A tacit understanding, where you glare a glare that says, _I’d haul ass so fast out of here if I could, old man, if your Sheriff didn’t have my car locked up in impound. I’d leave Radiator Springs in the dust._

And he’ll gaze back, slow and certain, arms crossed over his broad chest while he stares back at you unpityingly, mustache obscuring his upper lip. Most people might think that he’s unreadable or intimidating or something, but you’re Lightning McQueen, you don’t let yourself feel intimidation. Plus, you’re pretty sure you speak the same language as this man, and you hear him loud and clear. He’s saying, _Good riddance, kid. I saw though you from the start and don’t want you here, cleaning up my dirty town. Good fucking riddance._

It’s oddly comforting, knowing that you agree on at least _something._

But then things start to change, and without your permission. 

There’s Sally, for one, putting you up in her little motel and taking you driving and making you think that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong about everything, and you _could_ have friends, a community, a _girlfriend._ Not the sort who loves you for your Piston Cups or the money that comes along with them, but a _real_ one, an honest-to-god _girl_ who believes you can be more than you are, Dinoco or no Dinoco, whether or not California crumbles with the tide. 

For the first time in your life, you don’t mind going slow. It’s weird. Initially, you felt like you were in that old _Star Trek_ episode, the one where everyone moves at a normal speed, but Captain Kirk is so far accelerated that they seemingly inch along miserably at a statue’s pace while he burns up in a rage. Yet now you feel like you’ve _matched_ them somehow, like just _being here_ _long enough_ has wound your clock down so that you move at their pace, tipping cows with Mater, sneaking up to the abandoned restaurant carved into the hillside with Sally, and all the while, you’re _enjoying_ it, in spite of yourself. Maybe because for the first time since your mom died, you aren’t lonely. Or, rather, you're _lonely,_ but you aren’t _alone._

Doc is the only one who seems to _know_ that your heart beats differently, that you don't fit in. He makes a fool of you time and time again, and _still_ you don’t hate him, you _can’t_ , somehow, because there’s something comforting about being seen through. It’s not that different from being seen.

Then you find the Piston Cups in his garage, and everything else makes sense. 

You seem the same because you _are_ the same. You can’t hate him because he’s your hero _,_ a _legend._ Under the layers of frustration and bafflement and desert dirt, you _knew,_ your subconscious already recognized him, and _that’s_ why since the beginning of this mess, you couldn’t include him among the rest of Radiator Springs. He seemed different because he _is._

You try to get him to talk to you about it, but he shuts you out. There are slammed doors and silence and Mack dragging the paparazzi into town all of a sudden, and then you don't _care_ what happens in California anymore, who ends up painted in Dinoco blue. 

All you know is that somewhere, half-forgotten and neglected in a garage in Radiator Springs, are three Piston Cups and the mind, the _driving_ that won them, locked up inside of Doc. You’re determined to pry the wisdom from his iron grip, to needle the stories out of him like a game of “Operation,” Doc flat on his back and looking up at you, daring your hands not to shake.

On the drive to California, you think of that wreck, even though you try not to think of wrecks at all before you race. You imagine the sparks, the smoke, the Hornet battered and dented as she rolled down the track with her sides battered in, and amid that chaos, Doc, fifty years younger and pulled from the wreckage blood-slicked but still breathing. 

It’s amazing that he has no visible scars, that he doesn’t walk with a limp. You know because you've looked at him closely enough to have noticed, and it’s a relief to chalk it up to all of _this._ Things you knew but didn’t _know,_ phantom pains, unscratchable itches, quiet siren songs from old garages in shit-kicking towns, telling you to come back, come back. Slow down. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Lightning McQueen is canonically even like...zero backstory. It was really fun to build him one from scratch <3Ahoy, Lots of daddy issues ahead :))) Thank you to everyone reading this!!!!

CHAPTER 2 

In spite of everything, you soften up to him. It’s because he reminds you of yourself more than he reminds you of the boys you raced with, your rivals with their dirty, boring, transparent tactics. Their racing wasn’t dirty in the way that _your_ racing was; they lacked creativity and pizazz and instead were limited to aggression, which was why you could never stomach them, even if you _wanted_ them in some secret, shameful way or another. 

Lightning McQueen, even with his attitude problem, even though he never _listens,_ seems crazy-reckless in the same way that you used to be before you crashed and burned and never came back. He breaks rules, makes new ones. He crawls the sides of the banking and sweet-talks other drivers into losing concentration and refuses pit-stops until his tires blow, and somehow, _somehow_ , he still manages to drive his car over the finish line in an unprecedented three-way tie, sparks and smoke and an almost-fire in his wake. You’ve seen the post-race clips of him talking about it by now, the ones where he lies through his teeth and says that he doesn’t care about winning, only about the art of giving people a show, his million-dollar smile making you ache even when it’s on grainy video that you found online. Every stupid, guarded thing he says is so stomach-wrenchingly familiar that it makes you shiver, makes the inside of your mouth taste metallic, like you bit your tongue so hard that it bled. 

The only major difference you can discern between your rookie reputations is that, in spite of causing ripples and marking himself as a bad boy, Lightning McQueen is somehow still _well liked,_ whereas you existed on the outskirts of the racing world even when you were the one winning, even when _you_ were at the height of your career. You’re well aware that this can be attributed to other, unspoken differences, to underlying secrets that you can’t put names to because there are things you have not said in fifty years, and you’re not about to start now. Even if he’s here, forcing you to acknowledge them. 

He should be intolerable, even if you see yourself in him. It’s not like you’d _enjoy_ the company of your younger, even _more_ arrogant self, anyway. But there’s something about Lighting McQueen that draws you in on a fucking hook. You try not to think too much about it, try not to wonder why, then you realize that you don’t _need_ to because you’re not an idiot, you already know. 

The bare, lymph-glistening truth is that he’s so fucking handsome, eye contact feels like battery, and you’re drawn to breaking your bones, you always have been. 

So you seek him out over and over again, even as you’re trying to draw him out with bait, drive him out by force. You aren’t the Pied Piper, and he’s stubborn (like you were, _are_ ),and it becomes a sick, dirty game of push and pull. You find him, he shoves you away. You decide that you’re fucking done with him, he comes crawling on his knees, begging for the help he refused only days before. It’s a dance, and you're caught on a line, a fly on sticky-paper like you’ve always been with boys like this. 

You follow him to California, and that’s when you know you’ve lost. 

It’s the worst, stupidest thing that you've ever done, and still you throw yourself headlong into it, like you’re gunning a car to pitch off a cliff into the sea. It’s a suicide mission, a grand romantic gesture in a dark, empty room. You know that you’ll never be able to touch him in the ways you want to, bound in shame, in debasement, so you reach out and touch him in the ways you _can._ You put on a headset and your old racing uniform with _The Fabulous Hudson Hornet_ emblazoned on the back in swirling golden embroidery. It still fits you perfectly because, in some ways, you haven’t changed a _bit_ since you stained it with blood in ‘54. You’re the same angry, hungry man, desperate to prove that someone like you belongs on the track just as much as the rest of them. 

But that’s only _part_ of the reason why you hurtle out to the coast with your heart in your throat, thinking of him, the way he’s so stubborn, so reckless, so _different_ but the _same._ The other part belongs to your ego, the knowledge that _you_ got through to him, that _you_ taught him how to survive the banking of a dirt track without spinning out, that _you_ showed him how to get his tires dirty. Maybe he needs you. Maybe there’s an arrangement to be had, between two lonely men who refuse to listen to anyone, but might hold their own gaze in the mirror, if only for a moment. 

You’re probably already in love with him when he hobbles over the finish line with Strip draped bleeding and bruised over his shoulder, but that only deepens it, darkens it. You feel like this is _his_ grand romantic gesture, to the world, to Radiator Springs. A deliberate and intentional reparation for having been a selfish piece of road-ruining shit for so long. The implication that it’s _for you_ somehow is a thought you can’t shake, though, and you carry it home, just like him.

He returns to the place you thought boys like him couldn’t find if they tried, and suddenly Radiator Springs isn’t _your_ town anymore. It’s his, or his _and_ yours, and he slings his arm around your back too often and looks at you with stars in his eyes, and you’re his _crew chief,_ suddenly, and everything is going up in smoke, careening to hell, and you have no means to stop it because you’re drawn to breaking bones, always have been. 

Things are moving so quickly that it feels like you’re racing again, all you can do is lean into the curves and give it all you’ve got. 

——

Your dad left when you were three, your mom died when you were sixteen. You inherited the trailer you grew up in outside of Biloxi and sold it as soon as you could, promptly using that money to buy a car since cars were the only thing you consciously gave a shit about. 

It was a shitty one, a silver ‘80s Honda Civic with a dented bumper and a black replacement hood because the original got crushed when the guy you bought it from drunkenly drove it into a hydrant. It was _fast,_ though, when you wanted it to be. It shouldn't have been, but it was because you learned that if you wanted to run away from something hard enough, or to show up some asshole kid from the school you’d dropped out of last year, the best way to do it was to burn gasoline and leave skid marks on the pavement of the mall parking lot, the place where everyone went after hours to do donuts and blow smoke and race. 

You slept in this car, you kept your clothes and your Jeff Gordon bedspread and your suitcase packed full of books your mom used to read to you in the trunk, your toothbrush and your collection of NASCAR trading cards in the glove compartment. You were homeless that year after she died, but it didn’t feel like it. You drove on the interstate when you couldn’t sleep, pulling over to lie on the hood and watch the stars get hazy while you drank a six-pack of stolen Millers so you could. 

You decided to forget your first name because you never liked knowing that you shared it with your shit-for-brains, good-for-nothing dad. You came up with Lightning because the storms out here in the middle of nowhere Mississippi were the only things that made you feel alive, and you were one hundred percent sure you were gonna die before the age of twenty-seven in a wreck just like James Dean did, so it didn’t matter if your name was fucking ridiculous. It was temporary. Fucking everything was. 

That year was lonely, but so were all the years before it and the years after it, even once you got a sponsor and started _actually_ racing a track, winning enough that people started to pay attention to you. Things were lonely until you ended up in Radiator Springs, and now you’re not even sure what to do with yourself now that you have folks who honest-to-god _care_ about you, who’d mind you if you up and disappeared in the middle of the night to chase a storm. You’ve been forced to realize that there are _consequences_ if you get hurt, hearts to be broken. 

It throws you off at the same time it feels good. You’ve never had this sort of thing, really, and you wonder if you would have started racing in the first place if you’d had it all along, or if racing was a slow, passive suicide this whole time, a way to feel something or to _not_ feel other things. It makes you wonder about the sort of people who seek out racing, adrenaline junkies and sad, fucked up, lonely kids like you. Inevitably, this curiosity makes you wonder about Doc. 

Doc, who is sixty-something or maybe even seventy but still good-looking and athletic. Doc, who, to the best of your knowledge, has never married. You wonder if he’s an adrenaline junkie under the neat, polished, retired doctor exterior, or if he grew out of it, if anyone ever _really_ grows out of being sad, fucked up, lonely. But he seems so _stable_ and even-tempered and unaffectedmost of the time, which is infuriating because even though you're trying on this new life where you have a girlfriend you live with and a community that you’re a part of and no _real_ reason to jet off into the sunset leaving nothing but a rooster tail of fire and grit in your wake, you _still_ feel like you’re spinning your wheels compared to him. It’s hard, sometimes, to marry this stoic, serious man with the image you have in your head of the _Fabulous_ Hudson Hornet, that devil-may-care smile, those wild blue eyes, handsome and dangerous and compelling in a way taht you never could find words for as a kid. 

You had a pack of trading cards featuring pre-NASCAR legends, and the Hudson Hornet was always your favorite of the lot, the edges of the card worn smooth and faded from all the times you looked at it, held it, kept it in your Levi’s pocket for good luck when you challenged any number of shitty neighborhood kids to three laps around the parking lot for ten bucks or some gas station candy. There was something about his face that you were obsessed with, a _cockiness,_ like he didn’t give a single fuck what anyone thought of him; whether or not he won, he was going to give you a show, and you were going to be left breathless at the end of it, wondering what hit you. 

The Doc Hudson you’re lucky enough to call your crew chief and mentor is much harder and gentler than you would have imagined him, if you had bothered to do so. The Hudson Hornet was arrested in your head as that eighteen-year-old cad until you met him and realized that of _course_ he’s aged, of _course_ he’s an old man now, with a different, respectable job, a sadness to his face, a heaviness beneath those still wild blue eyes. 

But you always notice remnants from the trading card because you look for them obsessively. The glint, the madness, the _clever_ private knowing in his gaze, like he’s ten steps ahead of whatever playful insult you’re working up to sling at him. You catch sight of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet in reflections and flickers and in tricks of the light, like he’s a funhouse mirror. And you want _more_ of it, even as you’re equally curious about the smooth, placid exterior that he's successfully cultivated since the crash. 

_How do you do it?_ you want to ask sometimes, especially when you’re frustrated beyond all reason by something he’s teaching you that you just _can’t get_ , when you’ve thrown your helmet and kicked at your tire so hard your whole leg is throbbing and your face is streaked in sweat and dirt, and he’s just staring at you, telling you to try it again, gaze impenetrable, like ice over a lake. _How the fuck have you found peace?_ you want to scream. _How do you live watching me fuck up over and over again, when you could get behind the wheel and show me up, humiliate me? How do you live without racing? How did you race without it consuming you? How the fuck have you found peace?_

Some days, it annoys you, makes you angry at him, like he’s betraying the fundamental essence that makes him a racer, like he’s pretending that he’s someone else when he’s got gasoline instead of blood in his veins, just as you do. Other days, you’re jealous of him, you _long_ for whatever he's managed to find _._ Part of you wishes that racing was something you could leave, that you had the ability to stand on the sidelines and smile with just the very corner of your mouth, so unflappable, so nonplussed. A whole identity _outside_ the car, a life defined by _you_ and not the 95. 

Then you realize that you’re working at it. Chipping away slowly with his help. 

You now have a girlfriend you live with, a community that you’re a part of. You aren’t alone, you have shit to lose. You’re building friendships, taking steps back, letting people _in._ Admitting that you’re _wrong_ sometimes.

But still, you feel compelled to crawl into a roll-cage and risk your life, to run from things, to crash into things. Maybe you’d know why if you looked closely enough, but it’s easier to just look at Doc instead, to feel superior to him sometimes and like a failure other times, forever reaching for something pure that you’ll just get fingerprints all over. 

—-

Lightning McQueen moves in with Sally immediately upon deciding to stay in Radiator Springs, and you know it’s a bad idea at the same time it makes perfect fucking sense. 

You know the sort of boy he is, the sort to latch onto the first girl who actually cares about him and leech her dry, and Sally is always taking in strays. When a squirrel or coyote gets hit on the road by the rare passerby, she’ll try to lure it to the motel with American cheese slices. If it works, she’ll bring it to you, and as a result, you’ve stitched up and splinted more wild animals than probably any other doctor this side of Route 66. _M’not a vet, Sal,_ you tell her over and over again, but no matter how many times she assures you that she _knows,_ she’ll still come knocking at 11 p.m. on a Sunday night with a possum wrapped in a blanket, a crow with a broken wing. You can’t always save them, sometimes they die, and Sally always bawls about it like this animal she met two hours ago was a beloved pet, like she _cares,_ like she's personally wounded. 

It’s something you really like about her, you think. That she’s supposed to be some big-wig lawyer girl from the city, but she’s actually just a crazy cat lady with a heart too big and golden for her own good. She deserves better than the boys around here. She deserves better than boys like Lightning McQueen. 

The disconnect between her profession and her actual self remind you of all the ways you seem and how they massively conflict with the truth, too. On the outside, a pristine, retired, small-town doctor, with his starched dress shirts and dry-cleaned sweatervests and expensive Italian leather shoes. On the inside, a dirty fucking pervert with a stack of _Honcho_ mags from the ‘90s and terrible pulp novels like _Truck Stop_ and _Jump Squad_ from the ‘70s hidden in his bedside drawer, the slender, hairless chests of countless untouchable young men forever etched into the back of his eyelids because they’re what he thinks about before he falls asleep alone. 

If Radiator Springs is good for anything, it’s serving as a refuge for the sort of folks who have the biggest disconnect between who they seem and who they actually are. A neighborhood of liars coexisting comfortably and silently, tacitly agreeing not to pry about the things that don’t add up. 

At first, you thought Sally was an outsider, but the longer you know her, the more you realize that she’s no exception, she’s just as weird as the rest of you. She’s got too many pets, like the three-legged miniature poodle named Mini Man that she now leaves with Luigi and Guido to watch when she takes her work trips down to Los Angeles because the one time she left him with you, he came back too skinny. He needs to be hand-fed, apparently, and you just didn't have the energy or the elasticity in your knees to get on the floor and hold wet kibble in your palm for him every mealtime, so you didn't do it. _He’s a dog,_ you thought, _he’ll eat when he’s hungry._ But not _this_ dog, he’ll just _starve_ if you don’t hand-feed him. You don’t have time for shit like that. 

Luigi and Guido, on the other hand, call him their godson and spoil the ever-loving fuck out of him, which Sally eats up. It’s better this way, you not being entrusted to things that require any amount of serious care. You’re terrified of what it would mean for you to love something so much that you’d be willing to put food in its mouth, so you avoid getting attached to anything enough to find out if you’d ever debase yourself in this way. 

Lightning McQueen rolls back into town after his big race, and you realize with a lick of panic like something dry and brittle catching fire in your chest that there are very few limits concerning the lengths you’d go to care for him. Or the energy you’d pour into shaping the raw dough, building someone who could take care of himself. You’d hold wet kibble in your palm for him, you’d debase yourself for him, given the chance. Perhaps you already have. 

Sally takes him in instead, of course. He’s just another stray to her, an animal with a busted leg, wide, scared eyes, something to need her, something for her to care of. Just like Mini Man, she’s the one willing to bend down and feed him, and he’d rather take that sort of thing from a pretty girl than he ever would from an old pervert like you, so. It makes sense. Even if it makes you mad, digs into the tender places you can’t name. 

“You’re too good for that boy,” you tell Sally anyway, one evening after Lightning’s been living with her for a month or so. A blue jay flew into the window of her motel lobby, and it’s hopping around one of your examination tables now, dazed but very much alive, not even visibly injured. She’s standing beside you with her arms crossed over her chest, watching all misty-eyed, and you feel like you just _have_ to tell her that she isn’t doing him, or herself, any favors by taking him in.

“Maybe so,” she shrugs. “I like him, though. He’s, like…I dunno. He’s trying so hard, and it’s such a mess to watch, but I kind of admire it. That he’s working to be a good person after so many years of fucking it up, I mean..it’s sweet. _He’s_ sweet.” 

“He’s not a dog,” you remind her. “This isn’t some animal that can be nursed back to health or rehabilitated, Sally. He’s a grown man. You’re gonna get tired of him, burn out...he needs to be shaped up, not babied.” 

“Then between the two of us, I bet we can make a decent go of it, huh, Doc?” she says, nudging you gently in the side with her elbow. There’s a knowing, sidelong glance she shoots at you, but you must be imagining the depth of it. You’re pretty sure that no one here in Radiator Springs save for Luigi and Guido knows a thing about you, that they all think you’re a widower or married to your work, not some old gay bachelor with a bedside drawer full of _Honchos_. Or if they _do_ know, they’d never fucking say anything about it, or give you a look like the one you just imagined Sally giving you. Dark, conspiratorial, _humorous._

“He’s not my mess,” you lie, chewing the inside of your cheek. She’s opening the small carrier she brought and ushering the bird back inside, not looking you in the eye. 

“Oh, are you so sure of that? He’s calling you his _mentor,_ chief. He talks about you non-stop. He likes you more than he likes _me_ , I’m pretty sure, so you might want to take some responsibility. You’re the _Fabulous_ Hudson Hornet, after all...he listens to you.” There’s a pleading note to it, and you let that sit with you, dig into the meat of your chest, inching closer to your insides.

“He does _not_ listen to me,” you sigh, shaking your head fondly and fighting a smile anyway. Because as awful and shameful and ugly as it is, it makes your heart pick up in your chest to think about him talking about you like that, to Sally, to _anyone._ But especially to Sally. There are vines that grow through your ribcage and tighten around your windpipe, force themselves through your aorta, and choke anything you might feel to silence, most of the time. You should be terrified that he’s the thing making them recoil, but you’re too stunned by it to feel properly cautious. Your foot is on the pedal; the wind is buffeting your face. Your eyes are streaming from the sun’s glare, and it makes it so difficult to notice where you’re going, how quickly you’re approaching a precipice. 

—-

You’ve never been in love in your whole life, so you have no fucking idea what it’s supposed to feel like. You’ve never experienced or related to all the shit from songs or books about speeding hearts and dropping stomachs or profound, single-minded obsession. Maybe it’s fake, or maybe you’re broken. It doesn't matter because you get that feeling of dizzy adrenaline behind the wheel of a race car, so it’s not as if you’re _missing_ anything serious from having never been in love. 

Still, sometimes you wonder if something is wrong with you. Especially when you _finally_ have an amazing girlfriend. The gorgeous, smart, talented girlfriend you never, ever thought you’d land because no matter how many races you win and how much money you make and how hard you work to disguise your accent, you’ll always be trailer trash from Mississippi. 

It’s crazy, though, because she _likes_ you in spite of it all. But you also worry that this thing with Sally feels really good _because_ she likes you, and you thought something like that would never happen, so it makes you feel good about yourself to have been so wrong. _Still,_ your heart doesn’t speed, your stomach doesn’t plummet. You like her so much, but you’re not single-mindedly obsessed with her, and most of the time you’re fine with that because you don’t need some perfect, romantic love story to be content. But other times, it scares you. Makes you feel like a liar when you’re trying so hard these days to tell the truth. 

You’ve had too many drinks at the Wheel Well the night you confess it all to her, the whole of it gushing out as sudden and awful as a nosebleed, staining your hands like you killed someone. “I dunno if m’in love with you,” you slur, rubbing your face into the ditch of her neck and shoulder, inhaling her perfume, the way it’s mixed with her sweat and the fried-stuff smell from the kitchens because she’s been working all night. “And that...fuck, god, it just fucking _sucks_. You deserve _so_ much better, like, a guy who's obsessed with you, who gets sick when he sees you because you make him so nervous.” 

“Stickers,” she sighs, peeling you off, dumping you onto her couch. She's in her waitress uniform, and she looks so pretty, her dark hair piled up under the little hat-thing you have no name for because maybe you haven’t asked her enough questions about her life, her day, her jobs. You’re about to apologize for this when she sits down next to you, kisses your cheek long and hard, leaving a lipstick mark. “I really, really don’t want a boyfriend who’s obsessed with me, okay? I’ve had those, and uh-uh, never again. It’s probably good you don’t get sick, I mean, love isn't a Leonard Cohen song, _Jesus_.” 

You don't know who Leonard Cohen is, and you feel stupid, like you’re a backwoods hick compared to her as a result. You feel like this a lot, especially when you’re drunk and wondering what the fuck you’re doing, why a lawyer from Los Angeles is dating a NASCAR rookie from the middle of nowhere. “I’ve never been in love before, I don’t know what it is...m’learning,” you explain, and she combs her fingers through your hair, lays her cool palm on your sweaty brow like she’s checking for a fever. “I want to be a good boyfriend to you,” you say then, eyes fluttering closed because the room is beginning to spin. “I really want that.” 

“You are,” she promises, lips against your temple. “And if you ever _weren’t,_ I’d tell you...or I’d just dump your ass, don’t worry about it.” 

So you stop worrying about it. You already have too much to worry about, it’s not like you need to waste time agonizing over one of the _good_ bits. It’s very like you, though, to run cracks and fissures through something formerly solid, to blow holes in a foundation until it weakens and eventually cracks, falling to pieces. 

—-

There’s a knock on your door after 9 p.m., and you almost don’t answer it. 

You’re reading in your favorite chair with a single shot of whiskey on the rocks, absently swirling the contents of the glass and considering retiring to bed once you finish it when the knock happens: quiet and tentative and just outside on the porch.

You hear something but don’t register it as anything of import until it comes again, the distinct sound of knuckles against wood paneling, so you look up, sighing. You’re expecting Sally, a regretful expression plastered on her face while she cradles a cat with a blood on its whiskers or an abandoned baby squirrel, which is why you don’t bother putting on a robe over your PJs and white v-neck before you throw open the door. 

It’s not Sally, though, it’s Lightning McQueen, eyes wide and red-rimmed, hair in a messy whorl on his head like he’s been carding his hands through it over and over again. You stare and blink, but he remains there instead of dissipating into the night like some fantasy, some desert mirage. Quite suddenly, you feel exposed, standing in clothes that show the silver hair on your arms, so you take a jacket from the hook by the door and shrug it on. “It’s chilly out here,” you sigh, holding the door open. “You should come in, out of the draft.” 

He’s carrying one of his racing duffles, black nylon plastered in the usual mess of patches from brand endorsements. He often carries something similar to training sessions or practice runs, but this time it’s packed full, so tightly that he hasn’t even managed to zip it all the way. When he drops it to the floor, it thumps heavily against the hardwood, and you think you know what might have happened tonight, why he’s showed up on your doorstep with a metaphorical suitcase and his face blotchy and flushed. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” he says, collapsing onto your favorite chair, right beside your drink. You eye him warily and head into the kitchen to pour him his own shot. “I just...I didn’t know where else to go,” you hear over the clink of a glass against your counter. Your heart is pounding, your stomach in knots. He _does_ this to you, sometimes, when he catches you off guard. Robs you of your composure so you feel young and wild and scared again, catching yourself staring at the men in your rearview in ways you shouldn’t be. 

You inhale sharply, shake your head, and return to the living room. His hand shakes as he reaches up to take the glass from you, throwing back the golden finger of whiskey therein with a shudder, smooth and easy down the pretty ripple of his throat. You take your own drink, sip it, and sit down opposite him. “You could have called.” 

“I tried! Do you ever check your cell?” he asks desperately, a new bloom of color appearing on the highest point of this cheekbones. You want to push your fingers into it, watch the crimson rush back into the bloodless marks you’d make if you ever got to touch his face like that. You’d lay Lightning McQueen on his back if he let you, you’d mouth over every inch of him, leave teeth marks in places he’s never let anyone touch, make him come so hard that he couldn’t walk, if he was yours. But more than anything, you’d touch his face. Cup the sweet, young, asymmetry of it between your palms, just _look_ at him, trace his bones, count the freckles, kiss his lips slowly and softly until he was trembling. You have plenty of filthy fantasies, but at the core of your heart, you just want to hold him and know that he’s real. 

“I have a landline,” you remind him, sitting back and pressing your glass to your lower lip. “I don’t check my cell if I’m not at work. Shoulda called me here, kid.” 

He rolls his eyes and then scrubs his palms over them, huffing. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Okay, I’m sorry then, that I didn’t call your landline, I’m sorry I turned up here and woke you up or whatever.” 

“You didn’t wake me up,” you say, trying hard and failing to keep a defensive edge out of your voice. You down the rest of your drink, leaving the two half-melted cubes chasing each other around the bottom of the glass like a car drafting another along the track. You decide that you’re just going to say it, save him from the labyrinth he's lost in, endlessly spiraling. “She left you, didn’t she?” you ask, studying him. 

You expect his face to crumble, for the tears to come. Something dramatic, at least, but instead he flattens his mouth into a thin line and sits back, shaking his head like you just told him something unpleasant but not devastating. “Yeah,” he admits, eyes flitting up to the ceiling, an almost smile ghosting over his lips before he rethinks it and turns the corners down into a decided frown. “I deserve it, though, so it’s okay. I just had nowhere else to _go,_ you know, she owns the only motel in town, and I didn’t want to ask her to put me up after everything else. So I’m here...m’sorry.” 

“Quit apologizing,” you say, standing up again and reaching for his empty glass. “You want another?” 

“I guess,” he grumbles. “Fuck, yeah, what the hell.” 

You pour it strong and hand it to him, watch his lips pressed to the glass rim, brow run through with lines you imagine smoothing with your thumbs. When you first began thinking such things about Lightning McQueen, your sexual fantasies of him extending to include tenderness, _intimacy_ , you stopped yourself. You knew it was fruitless and impossible, and it felt cruel to yourself to indulge the craving. But he’s so _persistently_ in need of tenderness, seeking it from you in ways that you cannot refuse, so here you are. Refusing to stop dreaming, whiskey burning down your throat. “You need somewhere to stay,” you murmur after a proper amount of numbness and resignation have settled over your bones like melted pearls. 

“Yeah…ugh, yeah, I guess I do,” he admits, shaking his head. “But if you can’t, I totally understand. I can ask Guido and Luigi, or Mater—“ 

“Nah, m’not gonna let you stay in Mater’s trailer, there’s barely enough room for him in there,” you tell him, shaking your head. “The couch is comfortable enough for tonight. I have a spare bedroom I use as an office, but I’ll clear it out tomorrow for you, pull out the trundle bed. You can stay as long as you like.” You say it and you mean it, but you know you shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a bad idea, just like him and Sally. Still, it comes out like a flood, probably because you’re drinking in a panic and you love him in ways you shouldn’t and there's only so much you can handle, when he’s sitting in your favorite chair in a stained tank-top and sweatpants with his hands wringing between his knees, lips liquor-swollen and pink and kissable, asking you for things you can actually give him. 

“Thank you,” he says, reaching out and touching your knee, slow enough that you have time to school yourself into not flinching. “Like, I don't even have words, just…thank you so much. I dunno what I’d do without you, Doc.” 

“Race like shit,” you offer, half-smiling. He half-smiles back, and a heat builds in your solar plexus like distant thunder approaching, the promise of a storm. “Sleep on the dirt outside Fillmore’s until he brings you in out of pity and feeds you soy milk?” 

“Stop,” he wheezes, kicking off his shoes and bringing his feet up onto your chair. They're bare, like he forgot to put on socks on his way out, and something about that makes you feel so soft and broken open that you don’t even care his toes are digging into the leather of the only nice recliner you own. “I _was_ gonna try Fillmore’s place if you didn’t answer. Luigi and Guido would take me, m’sure… but they’d wanna know what _happened,_ you know? And I just...I dunno, I wouldn’t know what to say to them.” 

“No pressure to tell me the sordid details,” you say, quirking up an eyebrow. “But keep in mind that Sally is my friend, too. We get drinks at Flo’s on Fridays sometimes, when she's not bringing me busted animals to sew up. So if you want me to hear your story first…well, you’re gonna have to tell it.” 

His face doesn’t change. His inhale is slow and ragged, and it’s _your_ breath that’s catching as he holds your eyes across the room with his own, looking so much more tired and lovely than any too-young straight boy has the right to look. “It’s not even a story, is the thing. Like, she has every right to dump me. I’m...I’m not good for her, and I knew it. Seems like she finally caught up and figured it out, too.” 

“Tell me you didn’t cheat on Sally,” you say, though there are no other women in Radiator Springs you could even _imagine_ him pursuing. If there _were,_ though, you still don’t think it could be that. He’s a mess, but he’s not a cheater. He plays a Casanova on TV, maybe, but years of performing bravado have taught you to recognize other people’s masks. 

“God, no,” he shudders making a face. “Never...it’s not another girl, it’s _me,”_ he explains, gesturing vaguely. “I’m just…m’a shit boyfriend, I’m never around, I race _cars_ for a living, she worries about me, and I do it anyway because I _can’t stop,_ because it’ll always be the most important thing in my life. I love her, but I don’t _love_ her, you now? I never love girls like that, I don’t know how. S’fucked up, but I just can’t... _feel that,_ the shit m’supposed to feel. I want to be there for her, to take care of her, but I think in the end, it’s always gonna seem like m’playing a part. And that just…it caught up to her. She figured it out.” 

He shakes his head, grinning humorlessly at the floor, and your heart should be breaking for him, but instead something tightly furled is loosening up inside of you, opening its petals. “What don’t you feel?” you ask him, head cocked. The words hang between you in a way that makes the air seem thick, something almost _solid_ that you could alight upon, and you want to wave your hand, dissipate the tension like it were smoke. But the thing is, you’re pretty sure that you’re the only one who thinks this whole thing is tense, who thinks talking about racing as if it were a suitable alternative to women is like wading into dangerous and hauntingly familiar waters. Meanwhile, he’s settling back on your chair, extending his throat like he’s not afraid of a wolf taking it between his teeth and ripping it out.

“ _Anything_ , really, other than friendship and…gratitude, maybe. I was _grateful_ for her. Still am, I suppose, feel lucky to know her, for her to _want_ me. But m’not sure I ever… wanted _her_ really, for herself. Maybe what she represented…a slower, more authentic life. Radiator Springs. Everything that came along with being here.” 

“She’s more than that, though,” you say, watching him closely. The liquor has kicked in, and he's swaying a bit, unguarded as he leans back, chest rising and falling, eyes flitting beneath the lids as he closes them for moments longer than a blink. You imagine kissing that soft skin, encircling his wrists in your hands and telling him, _you loved the idea of her, that’s all, and it’s okay. There are things…people...you love, for more than their symbolic weight, kid. Look up, look around you, look in the mirror._ But you're not sure, really, that he sees _you_ as anything but a symbol, either. The glory of an era when racing was different, three Piston Cups and a battered car and a uniform embroidered with a flashy name. “She’s a whole person, a whole woman,” you remind him, turning it back to Sally so that you don’t implode or combust. 

“I _know_ that,” he snaps, mouth forming a troubled shape. “That’s why I don’t blame her, but I couldn’t give her what she needed…or deserved, I guess. It’s totally fair.” 

“Sure, it might be fair,” you tell him, rubbing your thumb so hard into the edge of your glass that it leaves a mark for a moment before it fades. “But you can still be mad or hurt or whatever you are, kid. It’s okay to feel what you're feeling.” 

“M’feeling….sad,” he says after a while, eyes still shut. He looks young right now, even younger than he is, which is decades, whole _lifetimes,_ younger than you. You wish that you could reach out and smooth your fingers down the flicker of his pulse, quiet it a bit, so he can sleep. But you can’t, so you just nod and sit there silently, allowing yourself to stare at him since his eyes are closed and there are only so many things you can be routinely denied before something vital inside you fractures and kills you. “And really fucking exhausted,” he adds after a moment, voice so quiet that it’s more of a murmur. “I just want to go to sleep. Forget this whole thing ever happened, even if it’s just for a few hours.” 

“I hear you,” you agree, standing on aching, unsteady legs so that you can go fetch the spare quilt from the guest room, an extra pair of sheets, and a real pillow instead of the suede throws you have out here. When you return, he’s already lying there, sprawled out with his shirt riding up, throat as jagged as the skyline of the butte when the weather is clear. You imagine it under your fingers and cover him up so that you can’t seen anything but his wan cheeks, the wreck of strawberry blond almost-curls across his brow. He’s so handsome that looking at him _hurts_ like a gunshot wound, and you’re old, you can’t take much of that, not anymore. “Sleep tight, kid. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“Hey, Doc,” he whispers just as you’re about to turn off the lamp you were reading by. Your fingers pause on the switch, your heart in your throat as you wait. “You never married, right?” 

“No,” you admit evenly, even though every nerve in your body is suddenly alive, yearning toward him like fibers of a woven blanket suddenly taut with static electricity. You think he can’t shock you, but then he comes barreling in, too sharp and painful to touch, lest you want to prick your fingers. “I never married.” 

“Why?” he asks then, unaware of the dread these sorts of questions bring to your body, the whole of you suddenly hot and shaky and ashamed. It never gets easier, being turned inside out. The horrible words that embedded themselves in your skin fifty years ago cling to you like viruses, never _gone_ , really, always ready to infect you again, bring you to your knees. “Were you ever, like…in love? Or did you just, I dunno, never meet the right girl?”

You shut off the light, cloaking you both in a cold, smothering darkness, sudden and inky. “I never met the right girl because there _is_ no right girl,” you tell him, voice so much rougher than you mean it to be, like you took sandpaper to it in the night. “I’ve been in love, though, I think.” 

You’ve never been to confession, but you imagine it being like this: the quiet, the dark, the rustling. You hear him shift on your couch, the creak of leather beneath his weight, followed by a long, low exhale, and everything feels strange and holy, deeply clandestine and horribly exposed, all at once. You hold your breath, and there the two of you balance, on opposite ends of the world. The only sound in the room is the roar of blood in your ears, drowning out the steady tick of the clock on the mantle. 

He opens his mouth to say something; you hear the click of spit in his mouth and anticipate it. _Who was she? What was she like? How did you know?_ So many questions that you have no means of answering, so you stand there with your heart in your throat, prepared to lie to him. 

“What did it feel like?” is what he ends up asking, voice small and tired, thinned out with breath. 

Your hand flexes and tightens where it’s braced against the wall, and you feel a wave of sensation wash over you, too many feelings to name rolled up into a single, tangled mess. _Like your eyes, when they hold mine, and I know I’ll never get to have you. Like a forever-sunburn, like carrying a dead weight around in your chest. Like pain._ “Hmmmm,” you ponder, closing your eyes. “It hurt.” 

He's quiet for a long time, and you wonder if he fell asleep, if you’re just standing in your own living room listening to Lightning McQueen’s breathing, heart so heavy with regret that you can’t even parse through the black filaments of it to identify exactly what it is you’re regretting. You’re about to leave as quietly as you can when he murmurs, “M’sorry.” 

And you don’t know what he’s referring to, what he’s apologizing for, if it’s for the ways in which love has hurt you or for asking you about something painful or for coming here in the first place. Or maybe he _knows_ , knows that they’re all the same thing. 

“Not your fault,” you end up whispering to the night, because if it’s true for one, it’s true for the others. “Night, son.” 

“Night,” he replies, and you leave, hand spread over your own chest like you’re checking for blood, for an exit wound. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Realizations. Thank you everyone who is reading!

CHAPTER 3 

Living with Doc is, like, the best thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s pretty much everything you wanted or were looking for when you lived with Sally but _better._ He’s an amazing cook, and he goes to bed early but sleeps through literally anything, so it’s fine if you come home after 11 p.m. after raising hell all over town with Mater. He has good coffee that ruins you for instant and Starbucks forevermore, and he doesn’t care if you stay out late at Flo’s drinking, likely because half the time he comes with you, cutting you off right before you stumble over the line between having fun and getting sloppy. 

You always felt so _guilty_ when you lived with Sally because you were trying to be someone you weren’t. Someone who was good at making anything other than toast and spaghetti, someone who knew how to do laundry without accidentally staining all her white work polos pink, someone who didn’t let his self-deprecation steamroll his inability to even _try_ to figure out how to fix these things.

For example, you were ashamed to ask her how to use her fancy washing machine with all the bells and whistles, worried that you’d come across as stupid, but because you _already_ have the sort of relationship with Doc where you ask him things and he tells you how to do them right, it’s so much fucking _easier_ to be vulnerable around him, to admit that you don’t know what you’re doing or that you’re in over your head. You don't mind him showing you how to make the guest bed the way he likes it (with hospital corners, as he calls them, because he literally doesn’t own fitted sheets) or which soaps go into the dishwasher versus the ones you actually wash dishes with in the sink. He’s attentive and present as he shows you, there’s eye contact and warm, careful smiles just like when you race, his hands brushing yours under the hot, soapy water as he fishes stray silverware out for you to scrub clean. 

Every single thing that might have felt humiliating or patronizing coming from Sally doesn’t from Doc because…well, he’s _Doc._ His existence is _already_ humiliating and patronizing to you, it’s _already_ his job to scold you, call you a rookie, take whatever you’re fucking up out of your hands and fix it before giving it back, holding your gaze to explain it nice and slow and sweet in a language that you fundamentally relate to. 

Sally was understandably short with you about this stuff, whereas Doc seems genuinely _happy_ to help you out. He teases you about your shortcomings endlessly, sure, but only at the same time he’s quietly and sincerely patient. You don’t feel like you’re asking too much, like you’re messing everything up, strike after strike. Not the way you did with Sally, who you were _supposed_ to be taking care of in return. _I’m not your mom, Lightning,_ she said during a fight, one of the smaller versions of the big one that ended you both, sending you wandering down the road that you’d repaved, eyes fixed and stinging on the reminder that you’d done one and only _one_ thing right here in this town, by this girl. _This is a partnership...I need_ something _in return, okay? Even if it’s superficial, like sex._

The words tumble around on repeat in your head, even still, all the ways in which you’d failed Sally echoing on a tireless loop. Toward the end, you’d been shit at _everything_ , not just staying present for her or keeping the house clean or making sure that she felt valued, but _fucking her,_ even, which was the one thing you thought might be able to save it all. You messed that up, too, though, messed up _all_ of it. The pressure got to be too much, and you psyched yourself out of everything you’d once been good at, convinced yourself that you didn't deserve nice things until you systematically drove them all out of your life, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

That’s why living with Doc is so fucking great. He doesn’t need or want anything from you, so you can’t do anything but impress him, fight for and subsequently _earn_ his respect. You google YouTube videos on how to make hamburgers and how to light a grill, and Mater brings his portable Weber over one Friday night so that you can surprise Doc with something other than spaghetti and toast, a feat you would have been too nervous and self-deprecating to try for Sally. 

Plus, he’s not expecting it the way that Sally would be after all the times you told her you’d step it up and contribute more, so he’s simply _thrilled_ , comes home after checking in at the clinic that he can’t stay away from even though he's retired and eats three burgers with pickles and sauerkraut while you and Mater share a bottle of Malibu rum. It’s _hot_ outside, even after 9 p.m., when the sun has started to set and everything should be cooling off, and you’re sweating so much that your shirt feels soaked through. Still, every time Doc smiles at you over the glass neck of his Sam Adams bottle, your stomach twists up in pride, and you’re so _glad_ that you can make him happy, pay him back somehow for all the things he’s given you for free. 

The thing is, Doc makes you feel good about yourself, makes you feel like you can succeed, _learn._ It wasn’t Sally’s fault that she couldn't do the same; you shouldn’t require praise and gold stars to do basic ass shit like laundry. Still, it’s _nice_ that Doc can do it for you. 

He loops his arm around your lower back that night, presses his mouth to your ear, and says, “You did good, kid. I appreciate it.” And long after he's gone to bed and you and Mater are sitting in the backyard looking up at the stars, trying to drunkenly name constellations, you still feel the whiskery scrape of his neatly trimmed mustache against the side of your face, his breath hot and boozy on your pulse. You keep thinking about how you pleased him, how you did _right_ by him, how you never could by Sally.

“You’ve been in town forever, right, Mater?” you ask, words slurring, rum-tinged and sticky. 

“Yeah, buddy…way back, y’know, back when folks still came here,” he replies, eyes closed, spread out on one of Doc’s once-fancy now sun-bleached patio chairs. “Was a real hoppin’place, Radiator Springs.” 

“Did Doc ever have a girlfriend? Do you remember her?” you ask, thinking about the bitter, dark weight his voice took on when he told you that he’d been in love, once. It’s something you wish you could fix, but you don’t know how. You think of a classy older lady who got away, someone in a ‘50s dress with her hair done up, everything grayscale like a _Twilight Zone_ episode because you’re drunk and you’re thinking about the Hudson Hornet card you once had, how you liked to have it in your pocket, Doc’s grainy smile in black and white pressed up against your thigh. He'd been so handsome back then, you figure she had to be a really gorgeous girl. 

“Shoot, no, Doc never had’a girlfriend, not that I can remember. I dunno, I always reckoned he’s like the rest of ‘em…yanno, like, Luigi’n’Guido, Sarge’n’Fillmore. Just...a single Doc without the couple part,” Mater explains, and it takes you a few seconds to process and catalog what he’s saying, your heart tightening and beginning to pound before your mind even catches up. 

“Wait…you think Doc is _gay_?” you ask, voice suddenly quiet, head only just aching in that too-drunk way. You’re dizzy as you turn to him, eyes unfocused. You want to know so badly, but you also feel like you can’t talk about this, not out in the open where the whole night can hear, every star a witness to this secret. 

“Well, _yeah,_ I always thought. But who knows, I never asked’m or anything,” Mater says, gesturing loosely before pointing up to three stars in a neat, twinkling little row. “Hey, McQueen, I think I found Orion’s belt.” 

It’s one of the two hundred ways in which Mater surprises you on the daily, knowing who’s gay before you do, knowing the names of constellations. You’re not sure why, but you want him to be _wrong_ about this one, if only because you’d feel fucking stupid to have missed something so _huge_ about Doc all this time. While you’re in his house, while you have his voice in your headset, the whole of him _surrounding_ you in this way that’s so profoundly grounding, comforting. You'd hate to think you’d been so selfish and wrapped up in your own bullshit that you just…didn’t notice. 

“Are you sure that’s not the big dipper?” you ask, yawning, even as your pulse still speeds.

“Nah, m’not sure,” he murmurs back. “But it sure looks like it, don’t it?” 

You don’t talk about Doc again that night, nor do you talk about the stars. You finish the rum and lie there with a sweetness on your tongue slowly turning sour and wonder what it says about you how bothered by this revelation you are. 

—-

There are nights you can’t sleep because you know he's a few rooms away, burning a hole in your home like stray embers cast out from flames. It’s a hazard, _he’s_ a hazard. He’s gonna turn you to ash. 

You don’t _want_ to get used to the quiet, comforting sounds of him rummaging around in your kitchen, finding the saltine crackers in the pantry, and bringing them back to the guest room to get crumbs in the sheets. You wish he was getting them in _your_ sheets, that you could scoff at him, roll him onto his back, kiss your way up his sternum, tell him how insufferable he is, how fucking perfect and pretty. It’s too easy to imagine what it might be like to have Lightning McQueen to yourself when he’s in your house and the couch cushions smell like him, when his toothbrush, his stupid Axe two-in-one body wash are in your shower. He's everywhere, inescapable, and it’s an awful way to feel about a boy you want so badly that it makes you foolish, dizzy, _hopeful._

Lying on your back and staring at the ceiling doesn't work. Neither does willing yourself to not jack off to the thought of him coming in here with his sweatpants riding low enough to reveal the red-gold of his pubic hair, his mouth open and begging and pitiful. You need to get _out,_ get _away_ from the smell of his hair, the sweetness of his breath when he laughs too close to your face, tilts back thoughtlessly into your arms as they bracket him by the sink, forcing him to finish loading the dishwasher before he heads out with Mater. He’s driving you crazy, making you think that you have a chance when you _know_ you don’t. Old men don’t have chances, especially not with young men, especially especially not with golden-boy rookie racers from the middle of nowhere Mississippi.

So you drive, the one thing you know how to do when your heart is like this, when your blood won’t stop speeding in your veins, when the dirt dyed blue in the moonlight won’t stop calling you. He’s driven this same track, spun out one hundred times while you watched, arms crossed in front of your chest to cage the thunder of your heart. It feels like touching him, in some ways, to take the Hornet out after 1 a.m., when the rest of the town is asleep, to erase his treadmarks with your own.

In other ways, it feels like a distraction, the best sort, the Hornet’s tires grinding earth beneath the skid of rubber as you slam around the banking, wind buffeting you through open windows, sand-gritty and cold, the ghost scent of sage clinging to your clothes as you skate over the finish line, a chorus of cheers playing in the back of your head, memories from another time. You lean against the wheel and pant, thinking that if you died here, in the desert, in the front seat of the Hornet while Lightning McQueen slept just down the hall from your bed, maybe that's happiness. Maybe that’s as good as things get for old queers like you. 

Driving laps until dawn is not unlike scratching an itch, not unlike jacking off. The same self-indulgent pastime to combat the fact that you want him, and he's _right there,_ at the same time he’s worlds away. 

You let yourself back in around 5 a.m., tiptoeing so as to not wake him, letting the door slide into its place as quiet and careful as a whisper. You don’t have to be anywhere until 10, so maybe you can catch a few hours of sleep after showering, but as you head down the hall, you run into him, his eyes unfocused, his cheek creased through from the pillow. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he murmurs, flattening himself up against the wall like he expects you to pass. “You…you want to get to your room? Or the bathroom? I dunno, m’blocking traffic, sorry, I know,” he nonsensically mumbles, and you’re not sure if he’s drunk or semiconscious or both. 

“I was going to shower,” you admit stiffly, hoping that he doesn't notice the sweat in your hair, the fact that you’re wearing _shoes,_ a windbreaker. Maybe he’ll think you only just woke up instead of asking you where the fuck you were. “You can piss first if that’s—”

“No, no, no, you can have it,” he interjects, backing into you awkwardly on his way back to the guest room, cheeks pink for no discernible reason, save for the fact that he's in clingy boxer-briefs that hug his package, and you’ve looked down at it twice; you’re human and you’re exhausted and he _does_ things to you, pushes up into the place that you long blocked off as untouchable, eyes wide like he _knows_ what he’s doing to you, even though he _can’t,_ he’s an idiot, he doesn't know how to use a fucking _washing machine_. Still, there’s something crackling between you here, and he’s flushed all the way down his bare chest, so he must feel it, too. Lightning McQueen makes you feel contagious, which just makes you feel crazy. “Fuck,” he blurts as he retreats, scrubbing one of his hands through the sleep-wrecked mess of his hair. “It’s too early.” 

You wonder what he’d think if he knew you'd been up all night driving. If it would shock him, impress him, maybe even _worry_ him. If he would have thrown on a jacket and headed out to the track to meet you there, stood on the sidelines and watched your tires sending trails of red dust into the moonlight, shimmering like a mirage, voice tight and excited in that way it gets when he’s asking you questions he's dead sure only _you_ know the answers to. It makes you feel like the only man in the world, like he’s built to take your wisdom in small, measured doses, and it’s your _job_ to feed it to him. This is why you teach him the basics: how to drive a dirt track, sheet beds, load laundry, stack plates. He eats it up, and you keep giving, as if you might get something in return, even though you know that’s impossible. It’s just what you feel compelled to do, when his mouth is open like that, and you have things to put inside it. 

He’s gone, and you wonder if you dreamt him up.

In the shower, you let the water run particularly hot like purifying fire, and it cascades over you in waves and stains your skin pink, like it would if he ever got his nails into you and begged. There are things you shouldn’t be thinking about, things you’re forced to think about anyway because even when you sneak off into the desert to burn rubber and forget about the blue of his eyes, he _finds you,_ corners you in your own fucking hallway, half-naked and dream-warm and impossible. You’re suffocating, you’re breaking, and there’s only one thing to do when there's a storm building and nowhere for it to go that won’t rip you asunder.

In the steam-haze, you take yourself in hand and touch, thinking about the soft pink hole of his mouth, the sleep-warm cotton clinging to his cock, the way he _listens_ to you, lets you take his hands in yours and guide them along the wheel, like he _knows_ you’re the only one who can show him how to do it perfectly. 

—-

Mater is right, and you feel like a fucking idiot for not knowing sooner. 

Once it’s brought to your attention, you notice so many things. The art on Doc’s walls, the Da Vinci prints and Greek statues, lithe young men holding grapes or shooting arrows, fabric artfully draped over their crotches in impossible configurations. It paints a vivid picture, now, whereas before, you just thought he was _classy_ or something. 

Plus, there’s his neatly folded clothes, his fine Italian leather upholstered furniture when literally no one else in Radiator Springs has that sort of stuff. (Except Luigi and Guido, which should have been a sign, too.) None of this would matter in and of itself, but compiled it feels like _evidence,_ somehow, proof that you misread him because you wanted to, because it would have scared a younger version of you too much to idolize a gay man in the way you did

You’re older now, though, so it doesn't bother you, at least not in the same way. It’s almost a _relief,_ to think that Doc’s coldness and sadness, his straight back and clean life and infuriatingly _fascinating_ secret past could all be chalked up to something separate from you, something you just don’t understand for lack of experience, rather than stupidity. You don't _mind_ Doc being different from you, in some ways. It means you don't have to hate yourself for caring so much, for hurting so much about every single little thing. He doesn’t do things the way that you do because he’s _different_ , not because you’re weak. Or at least, it’s easier to tell yourself this. 

You’re not one hundred percent convinced until you accidentally stumble upon his old magazine collections, looking for something to read in the bookcase on the night your phone is dead and you’re waiting for it to boot up. You start thumbing through the old _Sports Illustrated_ NASCAR issues he has sitting on the desk, but then, right in the fucking middle of them like _sign,_ like a snake in the grass,is gay porn.

You stare, mouth so suddenly dry, scalp prickling as your eyes scan over the image on the front. It’s not _that_ scandalous in the grand scheme of things; the guy is wearing low-rise Levi’s with a heavy belt weighing them down, so the angled cuts of his obliques are clearly visible, he’s greased up and shiny, but he’s not _naked_ or anything.

You can't tell if he’s supposed to be a mechanic or a construction worker. He’s got a scuffed-up yellow hardhat on and is holding a tire curled up under his arm, and he’s _strong-_ looking, maybe, but he’s not _buff._ He’s sort of skinny, actually, and he's got a enormous ‘70s handlebar mustache, kinda like Burt Reynolds, even though the issue is dated ‘82. He’s a slight, pretty-boy type if anything, and you wonder if these are the sort of guys Doc is attracted to before you realize that you’re just sitting there holding a gay porno magazine in your sweaty hands and _staring_ at it. You drop it, and as it flutters to the ground, you scoot back on the bed to give yourself some distance, heart in your throat like there’s something venomous in the room that might bite you. 

Doc is gay. _Doc_ is gay, Doc, who cooks for you every night that you don't grill for him, Doc, who’s always absentmindedly looping his strong arm around your lower back with his hand spread over your hip after practice runs while you lean in close so that he can tell you the statistics. Doc, who didn't have Netflix before you moved in and bought it for him, Doc, who now watches the DVDs you pick to get sent to the house, steadily making his way through streams of old Westerns and ‘90s action movies and _Twilight Zone_ and _Star Trek_ episodes, even some Bollywood movies because he likes the dancing and you think that’s a riot. Doc, who always looks you in the eye when he’s talking to you, a wistful sort of sadness floating around in the crystalline blue of his irises, something you didn’t have a name for but always wondered about, until now. Because Doc is gay. _Doc,_ your favorite person, the guy you feel closest to and trust most in this town and probably the whole _world_ , is _gay._

_Furthermore,_ he's apparently into skinny-strong guys with narrow chests, skin drawn tight over soft, muted musculature. You have a similar body to this guy on the magazine, and it’s never been a body you thought was particularly attractive in an objective way, only when coupled with your money and your track-born glory and your arrogance, which you brandish like a mask. But to think _Doc,_ Doc, with his good coffee and his fancy imported leather dress shoes and his top-shelf whiskey, could _want it…_ well, that makes you shiver, makes your stomach coil up and drop in a not entirely unpleasant way. You lean over the edge of the bed and pick up the magazine again, curious about what else might be inside. 

As you thumb through it, you think about all the times he’s looked at you, and your skin got hot and tight, and you didn't know why. 

Now you know. It was because he was _checking_ _you_ _out_ , and you were too self-absorbed and dense to notice. To put it together. 

You try it on, now, the realization that you’ve been sharing a house with a man who finds you sexually attractive. You keep waiting for it to freak you out, to make you angry, but it never does. It’s _Doc,_ and more than anything in the world, you want Doc to notice you, to care about you, to think you’re _good,_ somehow. You’ve carried his image around in your pocket for years, and even though you _know_ him now, know him as a real person instead of just a face on a trading card, grinning up at you with the promise of three Piston Cups, there’s still a part of you that thinks the world of him, has him placed up on a pedestal. 

To think that he could be looking at you as something more than _just_ some rookie he’s taken in but as a _man like this,_ posed with his arm above his head and his modest bicep flexing invitingly, as something _sexy,_ thrills you more than it should, maybe. 

But there are crossed wires in your head, maybe from never having a dad, maybe from never having been in love with a girl, even when she’s perfect and telling you point-blank that it’s okay that you aren’t. 

You’ve always craved the approval and recognition from older men, and you’re realizing with a strange, sudden placidity that you don’t _care_ if it’s _this_ sort of attention, as long as you’re not expected to _do_ anything about it, to follow through. And you _know_ Doc. He’d never ask for anything like that, you’re pretty sure if he's looking, it’s _just_ looking. And you’re pretty stunned to realize with a new, stark clarity that it _just_ doesn’t bother you. 

In fact, it feels _good,_ when you think about it. Burning up in the cold blue fire of his gaze as it climbs up and down you, lingers on your throat, your arms, the space between your sagging sweats and t-shirt when you’re lying on the couch watching movies with him. God, how the fuck did you not _notice_ it, the way he narrows his eyes like a challenge, turns up the corner of his mouth into the very beginnings of a smile, like he’s doing something so fucking _transparent_ that he can’t believe you’ve been sleeping on it, letting him get away with it? 

Maybe _this_ is why you don’t feel guilty living with him the same way that you felt guilty living with Sally. Because you couldn't give her any of the things she wanted, domestically _or_ sexually, but with Doc, you _can._ You can and _do_ walk around the house with your own low-rise jeans, chest glistening in shower-water or a sheen of sweat, depending on the time of day. He taught you to race and use fabric softener and mix ground beef with chopped onions and seasoning to make burgers ten times better, and you were okay just taking that knowledge from him because maybe you were subconsciously aware that your mere existence in his house paid him back. 

This whole time, you’ve sort of been his own personal, living ‘80s soft-core porno mag, and that’s _fine._ You're relieved, honestly, to meet the needs of someone you care about, to fill a void instead of just ruining shit or freeloading or _disappointing_ people. You don't feel like you disappoint Doc, not at all. You feel like you exceed his expectations, _surprise_ him. And that’s why it’s so fucking _nice_ to live here. 

You flip through the rest of the magazine, face hot and lungs tight in a way that makes you feel like you can’t get a proper inhalation in them, fill them to capacity. You keep going over the last few weeks in your head, so many throwaway moments that made you feel warm or noticed or cared for, all because Doc’s eyes got extra twinkly when he looked at you or because he praised you for doing something good or just because he pulled you in close for some reason, to clap your back after a particularly impressive practice lap or pick an eyelash off your cheek while you sat side by side on the couch, making fun of _Die Hard 2_. It wasn’t _you_ making things weird when you liked it. It wasn’t your _fault_ , and the relief of that washes over you like the tide, taking rubbish and sand along with it, smoothing you into a blank slate. It was _okay_ for you to feel the weight of those moments like they meant something because to Doc, they _did_. You were receiving something. Of course it felt special. 

That night, you dream of a whole fire department of straight guys who put out fires exclusively in the homes of older gay men. You’re applying to work with them, and they tell you, _it’s not so bad, really...they tip well, their houses are always clean, it’s sort of cool, actually, to get so much in exchange just for looking like this._ The thing is, they’re men just like you: passable as handsome but mostly average, toned and thin but otherwise unremarkable. In the dream, you tell them about Doc. _It feels good,_ you say, watching them wind up the hose, thinking about the sheer power of all that water, how it’s flat now but it swells thick and hard when it’s filled up, how you can put out entire _infernos_ with that thing. _When he looks at me...I don’t mind at all._

When you wake up, nothing has changed. No clarity or disgust has settled over your revelation and altered your comfort, you still feel fine about it. _Good_ about it, even. You slide the magazine back into the stack of _Sports Illustrated_ issues so that he won't notice you saw it, and you think about how those racers from the NASCAR articles don’t look so different, how they’re all the same sort of guy you are, the sort of guy that Doc apparently likes to look at. It’s comforting. 

You don't put on a shirt when you head out to breakfast, and this time, you actually _notice_ when he notices. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff getting interesting!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff getting interesting!!!

It seems like McQueen is _flirting_ with you these days, but you’re half-convinced that it’s all in your head, that you invented it out of want. It’s officially summer now, and the weather only keeps getting hotter and hotter, already in the triple digits come 10 a.m., so you have to get him out of bed before dawn if you want to hit the dirt track without burning up. The rest of the day is sweltering, the sort of heat that clings to you and forces the air out of your lungs the second you step outside, so maybe _that’s_ why he never fucking wears an acceptable amount of clothing anymore, always those too-small boxer-briefs and muscle shirts or sometimes nothing at all on top, even across the dinner table from you when you _eat._ It’s hard to focus on anything when you can see the hair matted in his underarms, the drips of sweat running down his ribcage when he reaches across the table for his beer. 

You could sketch the shape of his legs from memory now, and you’re pretty sure that it’s not okay, that it’s downright _dangerous,_ even, for your health. Asking him to wear sweats will just draw attention to it, so you let a few days go by and silently suffer, constantly working to look away, to feign disinterest, to seem like you’re _not_ coming apart at the seams, melting in the heat like the rest of the town, only more acutely here, under the microscope of his skin. It’s only when you catch him _catching you_ that you know for _sure_ something’s up. It’s not all in your head, the little shit is _playing you._

It’s when you come back to the living room from the kitchen with drinks in hand for you both to find that he’s _stripped his shirt off_ in your absence and decidedly shifted to take up more space, his eyes half-lidded and waiting, studying. 

A cold numbness washes over you. It ices your blood, stops your heart, and it’s like _time_ ceases its steady tick-tick for a moment, everything arrested and unmoving, whittled down to this single exchange: Lightning McQueen holding your gaze clearly and evenly while he _smirks_ at you, slouching with his arms spread wide on the back of your couch so that if you want to sit down beside him, one of them would inevitably remain behind you, perhaps even brushing against your shoulders. So you just stand there, holding a glass of whiskey in each hand, the cold biting into your palms. “Kid,” you say after a moment, deciding it’s best to just drag this shit out into the open instead of letting it ferment, growing a mind of its own. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

You must sound fed up enough that it actually shakes him because his expression falters conspicuously, curiosity replaced with uncertainty for a second before his guard is up again. “I...I want to ask you something,” he says then, curling one arm in and dropping his hand to his lap so that you can finally fucking sit down. You do so but at a safe distance, hand steady as you pass him his drink. He takes it, pressing it to his cheek like James Dean in _Rebel Without a Cause,_ and you have to look back to the TV, where the movie is paused and nothing but an indistinct smudge of black and gray remains. 

“Okay, _what?_ ” you sigh, bracing yourself even though you aren’t quite sure what _for,_ what you should expect _._ You feel like this could go one of two ways: he’s coming on to you for some fucking reason, which you won’t be able to handle or even believe, or he’s about to confront you about the way you feel, accuse you of things you won’t be able to deny, and it’ll _hurt_. Hurt is palatable, though, because it’s familiar. You know what to do with him if he tries to fight. Anything else is new, and it’s been a long fucking time since _you_ were the rookie. 

“Are you attracted to me?” he asks, voice quiet, loaded. 

You try not to look at him and fail, gaze sweeping over to land on the easy splay of his thighs, the ladder of his abdominal muscles under a soft layer of skin, everything dusted in strawberry blond hair that would be smooth under your hand, coarse against your lips. And there’s the answer to his question, of course. You're not just attracted to him, you’re _paralyzed_ by him, you think he’s fucking perfect. You’re _in love with him_ , which makes it all worse because it’s _not_ just attraction, not for you. It’s the whole interior of your heart, every tiny tucked-away room in the whole floor plan of it. You don’t just want to look at him, you want him to live there. Having him spread out and asking if you’re attracted to him seems like a _joke,_ like a gambit to get you to confess the ugly mess of it all so that he can mock you.

Still,you’re pretty sure he’d be sitting differently if he hated the idea. He wouldn't be parading around in his underwear all the time. He's _getting_ at something, he _must_ be, so you swallow the spit in your mouth, shake your head, and throw back some whiskey. “What if I was?” you counter, a question as an answer to a question, nothing committal or serious. You can always reel it back if he doesn't bite. 

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” he says quickly, turning to face you, eyes bright and earnest in this way that bowls you the fuck over. You never expected _honesty_ from Lightning McQueen, certainly not about something like this. You feel like he’s speeding off into the distance, and you’re choking on his dirty air, struggling to catch up, marbles under your tires. “Not one bit. I’d sort of...I dunno, I’d like it, I guess. It’s just looking, you know? And being looked at…it’s, like…I’d be paying rent,” he justifies, rubbing an open palm over his chest, the same chest that you’ve imagined licking up so many times, littering in dappled bruise marks from your teeth. He's touching it now, for you. It’s so fucking surreal that you can’t even appreciate it, can’t lick your lips or get hard or do _anything_ but blink, brow furrowed in disbelief. 

“Rent? I told you…you don't have to pay. You can stay as long as you want,” is all you can think of to say to him, a recycled line, repetition since you can’t think of a single new word, everything blanched by the stark shock of this conversation.

“Yeah, I know, and I appreciate that so much, Doc, I do. Like, a lot...but at the same time, I feel this guilt, sort of, and I want...I want, like, to make you happy, I guess? To earn my keep.” His tongue, pink and pretty and the sort of sweetness you wish you could suck on, flicks out over his chapped lower lip. This is a porn set up; it’s not real life. You feel like he’s reading a script and trying his damnedest to replicate it, and you’re _reeling,_ your head spinning as you shake it at him. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, taking a swig of your drink. “Where did you get all this?” 

He cocks his head, tilting it back onto the couch cushion so that his overgrown hair spills out over it, soft and gold. You want to smooth it back down, tuck it behind his ear, but none of this seems real so you remain where you are, clutching glass and chewing your lip, baffled. 

“Get what? I just…I dunno, I notice things. Notice how you look at me. And I _like_ it, it’s fine. It's good,” he clarifies, smiling at you in this way that should not be real. Open and easy, like spilled honey. “M’not gay or anything like that, but this doesn’t bother me...you can look. Whenever or however you want.” 

You laugh, but it comes out a nervous, disbelieving sound. Because all of this, every _word,_ is astounding. It’s not an outright rejection, but it’s not a _real_ invitation to the buffet, either, and as a result, you have nowhere to categorize it, no way to cope. So you chug the rest of the whiskey, throat burning as you set the empty glass down on the coffee table with a clink. “What makes you think I _want_ that, kid? It’s distracting, having you walk around in your underwear. I dunno who you think I am, but m’not some desperate old-timer.” It’s a lie, but his eyes flicker anyway, like he hadn’t considered his proposition not being met with pleading gratitude, you down on your knees _begging_ for a glimpse of his ass. It drives a stake in your heart, to think that he sees you like that, so transparent and pitiful. The truth showing through the disguise you’ve been building for fifty years. “I don’t _need_ this.” 

“Fuck, I know that, I don’t think you _need_ it,” he says frantically, canting closer to you, so much so that you lurch back because if he touches you, you’re fucking _done_ for, you’ll pin him to the couch and bite his mouth, and you’re pretty sure that’s not what he’s asking for. There are lines being drawn in the sand, and you don’t want to cross any of them. “I just...maybe _I_ do. Need it, I mean, since I’m here, rent-free and useless at chores. I guess m’saying it would make _me_ feel better.” 

You stare at him, throat thick and aching, heart shoved up into it like a fist, and as it pounds, it feels slick and angry and longing, always longing. Lightning McQueen is telling you that he _needs_ you to look at him, that he _needs_ the lingering crawl of your eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening,” you mutter, tearing your gaze away. You want to tell him that you’d rather he pay you _actual_ rent than offer this, but it would be a lie. You’re so _tempted,_ in spite of yourself. 

“If you hate the idea, I’ll _stop,”_ he shrugs matter of factly. “But I bet you won’t stop looking, right? Which is _fine,_ that’s the thing.. _._ I’m just saying, if you want to, like, stop pretending or hiding or whatever, I’m down. You can look.” He says this as he spreads out again, chest visibly heaving with the force of his breath, pulse thundering in his throat where your gaze is currently fixed in spite of yourself. He’s _so_ gorgeous, scared and vulnerable, which only makes him look even _better_ to you.You could crack this veneer, slide your hands under his mask, and cradle the boy beneath, tell him, _you don’t need to forge this whole elaborate plan, kid. You can give it to me. Whatever shit you’re carrying, whatever hurts, I’ll take it._

_“_ In exchange…for what? Just you continuing to live here?” you ask, quirking up an eyebrow. 

He smiles, the same easy smile you’ve seen one hundred times, the one he smiles when you tell him that he did a good job eating up the track, when he wipes the kitchen counters down and you notice. This is just another chore for him, and what’s _wrong with that?_ You’ve gone without for so fucking long that even a farce like this feels like intimacy, just having your desires _recognized,_ seen and acknowledged, has you trembling. Maybe it wouldn’t be so awful, to have permission to once-over Lightning McQueen. Maybe you’d feel something else about it, something bigger than humiliation. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, hand resting high up on his thigh, under the ridden-up hem of his briefs. Normally, you’d kick yourself for noticing something like that, but he’s _encouraging_ it this time, so it feels different. More like a game, less like a mistake. You blink slowly, letting your gaze climb up his hips, his stomach, his ribcage. 

“So I just get to look. No touching. No comment, no shame. And you…,” it trails off, stopping as your sight fixes on his lips, which are licked and pink and wet-looking now, perfectly kissable. You wonder if you can _survive_ having just this, the image of him and nothing else, his flesh in touching range but forever out of reach. Then you decide it doesn't matter because you're going to die soon anyway, and you’d rather go like this than some other way. Alone and cold in your sleep or crushed up and bleeding in another wreck. If looking at Lightning McQueen’s sugar-sweet, soft little package in his underwear is the way you go, then so be it. There are one hundred worse ways to hurt yourself. 

“I get to know that my favorite racer thinks I’m hot,” he smirks, shrugging. “It’s cool...I like it, I feel special, you know? And also like I’m not just here annoying you, taking up space. I can contribute.” 

You shake your head again, trying to take another sip even though there’s nothing left but ice. It knocks cold up against your lip, but you suck it up anyway, crunching it before you swallow. “You got a funny idea about what contribution is, kid.” 

“And you got a funny idea about what’s hot,” he quips back, settling into the couch and taking a slow, long swig of whiskey. You catch the ripple of his gold-stubbled throat out of the corner of your eye and realize with a strong punch in the gut that you don’t _have_ to rely on your periphery, you can just turn and stare, lick your lips. You take advantage, and he smiles against the rim of his glass as you do it. “I’m not complaining, though,” he says, flipping his soft blond bangs from his eyes, confident and easy like the rookie from TV that you used to watch and loathe and _want._

“This arrangement,” you say, shifting your gaze back to the TV, unpausing the movie so that there’s background noise to drown out the hard, painful edges of what you’re about to say. “What happens when you get a nice girlfriend and move out of here, huh? I just go back to being your crew chief, forget all about the fact that I’ve seen you chubbing up in your underwear?” 

“I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” he says, lips parted over a breath, his arrogant little cock twitching in his briefs. You get to watch that, too. Funny how two minutes of this has you drunk, dizzy, baffled. He’s getting hard just from being unabashedly checked out, and you didn’t believe he was actually okay with any of this until right _now_ , seeing it for yourself, the way that he’s swollen, curious, _preening_ under your gaze. _Fuck._ Your cock is stirring in your sweats now, too, but you don't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to you, so your cross your legs, looking back to the screen. 

“To burnt bridges, kid,” you say, handing him your glass. “Refill this, will you?” 

He does as he’s told, and you get to stare at the plump curve of his ass as he walks into the kitchen, threadbare cotton riding up into the crack, where he’s probably warm and damp and musky and perfect. 

You don’t get to know that part, you suppose. But you can look, and _damn,_ doesit feel good. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chats with Mater <3 Thank you everyone, I'm loving reading comments on this.

You had a series of expectations about how this thing might go when you first proposed the idea to Doc. You tried on all the possibilities, what it would be like to know for certain that he was jerking off thinking about you, how it could get uncomfortable to feel like you were whoring yourself out to him, or how it could result in a pervasive self-consciousness about your body to know his eyes now had official permission to linger on you whenever the fuck they wanted. You anticipated it being weird, maybe, awkward in moments. But mostly you thought it would be _easy._ That you'd hardly think about it, and if you _did_ , it would be with that warm, familiar surge that comes along with doing _anything_ nice for Doc. You thought that if it felt good at all, it would be complacent good, smug good, proud good. 

But never in a million years did you anticipate it feeling _good_ good. Or, more specifically, _hot_ good. 

The revelation surprises you, a lot. That it doesn’t just boost your ego to have Doc check you out, it _turns you on,_ sends needles of heat down your spine, tightens up your stomach, makes your heart race. You feel sexy and coveted and _powerful,_ and all you’re doing is _existing,_ wearing your same old Walmart briefs and stained shirts like you always do, nothing special or intentional, but he _likes it so much._ Sally was always gently encouraging you to replace the most well-worn and tattered of your clothes, suggesting that not _all of them_ could be good-luck tokens like you claimed them to be, that there was no shame or waste in throwing out the things washed to translucency. But it was another point of insecurity for you, another unshakable marker from your past: that no matter how much money or glory or success you accumulated, there were always things about you that felt irreparably dirty, cheap, _poor._

But then there’s Doc, the classiest guy in Radiator Springs, folding just the top half of his paper over neatly and surveying you over it, ordering you to turn around so he can see you from the back. You can feel his eyes slowly, _carefully_ tracing the curve of your thighs and ass in the pair of once-black briefs that are so threadbare and overwashed that they’re a weak gray now. There’s such _care_ and indulgence in the way he drinks you in, and your face gets hot, the blood rushes to your dick, and you threaten to stretch the fabric out even more. _God,_ it’s _wild_ how quick and easy it works you up when he looks at you, when he _tells you_ that he’s looking at you. 

You’re not sure why, but the act of him finding you desirable makes you _feel_ desirable instead of insecure, which is what you’ve felt historically in similar circumstances. Or maybe not so similar circumstances, since you’ve never done anything quite like this before in your whole life. You feel power drunk, _creative,_ even, like you _want_ to find new and higher stakes ways to catch his attention, to break his focus on the TV or magazine or novel and affix his gaze to you instead, the quiet hot-blue of his eyes branding your skin, making it erupt in sweat. 

Because it seems like something you should be having a crisis about, you sort of force one on yourself, overthinking your own brain into a frenzy one night after having to jack off once Doc’s gone to bed. You end up thinking about him because none of your usual masturbation fantasies are working for you at all, and without even realizing it, your mind slips back into the way it felt when he licked his lips at you today, eyes locked on your half-hard cock in a pair of track pants you'd been working out in, and just like that, you’re gasping, fisting yourself to finish, coming all over the sheets on his guest bed. As you lie there, sweat cooling on your skin and cock still throbbing in your open palm, it occurs to you that this isn't something you considered might happen, and therefore, it’s also something you don’t really know how to deal with.

And it might not mean _anything,_ really. Or anything beyond the obvious: you’re definitely fucked up and have daddy issues and are possibly such a megalomaniac that the mere act of being admired feels so fucking good, you get off on it. Still, you wish you had a second opinion, someone to tell you that it’s alright, that it doesn’t mean you’re gay, or that you’re crossing the tentatively laid down boundaries of this arrangement by enjoying it a little too much. But you have no fucking idea how to bring it up in the first place, how you even _begin_ to tell someone, _I not only agreed to but_ suggested _a set up with my old gay crew chief where he gets to check me out unabashedly while I live with him, and for some reason, it makes me come harder than I have since I was fourteen with my first_ Playboy _, what the actual fuck do I do?_ It’s just not something you can sugarcoat or explain without it coming across like you’re crazy or stupid. This has to exist in the shadows, which makes it feel _unspeakable,_ which just makes you even more tightly wound and panicked about all the ways it’s making you feel.

There’s nothing left to do but find Mater. Weirdly, Mater is the best person to ask about anything personal or embarrassing, especially when he’s working and half-distracted by whatever hood he’s under. The thing about Mater is that he _never_ asks follow-up questions or pries past the carefully worded, selective piece of information you’ve provided him with. He doesn’t choose to read between the lines, he just _listens_ to you, answers the question accordingly without placing it in context or inferring past it. It makes him an _incredibly_ refreshing conversationalist, especially after Doc, who often narrows his eyes at whatever you’ve just said, scrutinizing it like he’s about to pick it apart and turn it back on you, making you second-guess your _own_ motives. 

You make the mistake of _walking_ to Mater’s in the middle of the afternoon, and you’re sweat-soaked and flushed and dizzy by the time you make it there, head aching from sunlight even through the lenses of your aviators and now from the familiar gasoline and tar smell that permeates _every_ mechanic’s. You collapse onto a giant tractor tire just outside and regret it immediately because it nearly burns you through your flannel.

Mater wanders out of the garage at the sound of you cursing, engine grease on his face and hands, his usual pair of ripped coveralls half-zipped over a paint-stained polo. “McQueen!” he announces, hugging you with one arm, careful to keep his dirty hands off your clothes, which you’re grateful for. “Good to see you, buddy.” 

“Hope you don't mind me coming to visit you at work unannounced,” you say, hugging him back. 

“Shoot, ‘course not!” he grins, hopping up onto the hood of a ‘94 Pontiac Firebird that’s in for work. It’s propped up on a jack, but you try not to be nervous about the shit he does around cars because he always knows better than you in the end. You drive them, sure, but you know close to nothing about fixing them, and he’s a fucking encyclopedia of facts where that’s concerned. “You want a beer or a soda? It’s sure a hot one today.” 

You take a beer even though it’s canned Budweiser, which you can barely stomach anymore, not since Doc got you hooked on the nice amber ales that come in the fancy glass bottles, Dos Equis and Stella and Sam Adams. Mater doesn’t seem to mind that you’re hardly sipping, though, he’s wheeled out his creeper and rolled under the Firebird where she’s hoisted up, voice coming out muffled as he shouts to you, “So what’re you up to? Just out about town? Gettin’ some sun?” 

“I came to visit you,” you tell him, pressing the cold can to your face, glad that it’s good for _something,_ at least. You scan the street, but there’s _no_ one around, not even at the tables outside Flo’s with the umbrella shade. There’s just the sizzling pavement, heat wavering over it like a mirage, the road you repaved earlier that year still blacker and smoother than the rest, like scar tissue. Radiator Springs feels decidedly and hauntingly empty in this moment, though, so you clear your throat and add, “I need some good ole Mater advice, I guess.” 

“Anytime, buddy, shoot,” he says, rolling out from under the car for a second to salute you with a screwdriver. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you take a deep, wavering breath and brace against the potential of an oncoming wind. “Do you think it’s vain or bad or even just _weird_ to, like…get turned on by someone being turned on by you, even if they’re not the sort of person _you’re_ turned on by, and you wouldn't, like…wanna date or have sex with them or anything?” you ask. Nothing about it is graceful, and you cringe, but it’s fine because he’s not looking at you. Might not even hear you right from all the way down there. 

“Hmmmm,” Mater ponders, low and long, as if he’s really considering your question, which you appreciate because sometimes the mere mention of sex can send him into a hysterical laughing fit. He tinkers under the car for a moment, then rolls out, sits up, and adjusts his bucket cap. “I think all sorts of people get turned on by all sorts of strange things, and as long as it’s not _hurtin’_ anyone, there’s nothing wrong with any of it, right? Like, I knew a guy once who got his rocks off on wearing ski pants, something about the swish-swish on his dick, I guess. And I sure as hell didn't get it, but who the hell cares what I get or not? They’re just ski pants.” 

“Thank you, Mater,” you say, snorting and taking a self-defensive sip of awful beer just to give your mouth something to do. “For being the most open-minded person I know.” 

He grins at you, rolls further out, and holds up his own beer so that you can toast over a distance. “Aw, thanks, buddy...a guy never got nowhere by being judgmental.” 

A moment passes, Mater tinkering around under the car, you gasping for air in the heat and taking awful, measured little sips of Bud, even though it’s making your headache worse. You could end it here, ask Mater how his day is going and sit around while he rattles off one of his stories, but there are _other_ things you’re thinking about, other things you feel like you have to voice, even if it’s to the shimmering horizon line, the black of the road. 

“You know how…you know what you told me, about Doc?” you ask in a hush, staring at the rim of the can, rubbing your finger over the little etchings there next to its open, jagged mouth. “I sort of think he, like, thinks I’m good-looking. And instead of freaking me out, I actually really like it,” you admit, grateful that Mater probably won't internalize or even remember this, especially since he’s rolled back under the car. “So I had to, I dunno, tell someone because I was thinking about it a lot and feeling sort of guilty, for some reason, like enjoying it made me bad.” 

“You _are_ good-looking, McQueen, shoot, of _course_ he does, I bet everyone here in Radiator Springs thinks you’re the bee’s knees, hell, I coulda’ told you that,” he shouts over the sound of a hand-held drill or something else noisy and mechanical that he’s got under there. “That’s sure _flattering,_ though, Doc’s a fella with taste. I guess that makes you like a fine wine, don’t it?” 

You laugh, relief washing over you so powerfully that you almost feel like there’s a breeze, like the heat is melting away from your skin for the briefest moment so you can breathe. “I guess it does, and there’s nothing wrong with, like, _liking_ someone seeing you that way, right? Especially when you’re not used to feeling like a fine wine…you’re used to feeling like a Bud. Or a Bud Lite,” you grimace, gesturing with the sweating, now half-empty can. Your headache is worse, but everything else is better. 

“Aw, McQueen, you ain’t a Bud Lite. You're at _least_ a Miller.” 

You crack up at that, and then Mater’s going on about something else, how he saw a jackrabbit last night chasing a snake around the desert, how crazy he thought it was that the prey had one up on the predator. You finish the beer out of politeness and force of habit, scooting down onto the pavement next to him so you can hear better, grateful for the shade, for the company, for the mindless, wandering prattle. 

When you head back to Doc’s place later that evening after taking a short jog around town once the sun drops behind the butte, you feel much better, like this is _normal,_ and even if it’s _not,_ it doesn’t _matter_ because no one is normal, not here in Radiator Springs. Or anywhere else, for that matter. You take a cold shower and change into a clean but well-worn pair of gym shorts, no underwear, because you can tell how much Doc loves it when he can see your cock loose and soft while you're free-balling. And you love it, _too,_ how much he loves it, the way he shakes his head, presses his tongue into his cheek, and stares, perhaps making a low, quiet sound of approval in the back of his throat. 

You shiver in anticipation and wait for him to get home. 

\---

Just when you feel like you’ve gotten used to this whole thing as best you ever will, he changes it up on you, throws another fucking curveball. 

You’ve been noticing how turned on he gets when the air in the room changes, and you take advantage of the permission he's given you to look your fill. It’s got you curious but not assuming, the way he flushes, the way he bites his lower lip without even noticing it, tracking _your_ movement while he does whatever you say, like _you’re_ the thing that matters here. He loses sight of himself in ways you can’t make sense of, so all you do is make careful, curious note of it and half-wonder. 

It seemed so pathetic, initially, to be offered this. But now that you're neck-deep in it, you can’t imagine it any other way, really. You’re not sure how you _lived_ with him before, how you fucking tolerated his forever sweat-damp body and his clothes that don’t fit, all laundered to tatters and hanging off him by what seems like sheer stubbornness alone. You haven't had to sneak off for a midnight drive _once_ since the two of you figured this thing out, probably because the outlet you were looking for landed itself right in your lap. You don't have to feel guilty or escape from it because you can just _do it,_ right here in the open. Stare at him. 

Maybe you’d feel different if he didn’t eat it up so much, but he _does,_ so fucking full of himself, such an exhibitionist, a goddamned _showboat_ , sitting up taller or lifting his arm like a _Playgirl_ model to give you the full line of his ribcage as it dips into his underarm. 

Then, of course, there’s the way that he gets _hard_ for you. The tender handful of his package twitching under your gaze, swelling to fill his briefs in this way that clearly embarrasses him but not enough for him to ever hide it, cant away from you, or close his pretty thighs, pale and glittering under the layer of gold. He watches your eyes as your eyes watch him, and something about that makes you feel _crazy_ , like he’s getting _off_ on how beautiful you find every inch of him, like you can _really sink_ into feeling the dirty things you’re feeling without beating yourself up for it after the fact. 

This whole dynamic also makes it easier to hide how hard he makes _you_. He’s never really focused on it in a way that you can track, and you, unlike him, wear actual _clothes_ and wouldn't be caught _dead_ in shorts, even in the summer. Your sweats and trousers are baggy enough to hide it, or you cross your legs, angling your body in such a way that he couldn’t figure it out even if he tried. 

It’s not like you think he doesn't _know_ what he does to you. It doesn’t take your hard cock to give the profound expanse of your hunger away, you _know_ the truth shines through in one hundred other places. You’re a _doctor,_ after all: you know that your breath catches, your pupils dilate, your heart _pounds_ whenever he gives you a backside view, and you can see the thin, perspiration-damp cotton wedged up inside his crack. It would take a blind deaf man to not notice, and Lightning is neither. He’s also not _stupid._ He knows, and he delights in it, as far as you can tell. 

Still, you like having one up on him, knowing that to the naked eye, _he_ looks more desperate, more affected, whereas _you_ can hide your shame, save it for the bathroom where you empty yourself in shuddering waves, mouth watering at the hazy, hot, summer-perfect image of him, the smell of his skin only inches away. 

You think you have this (and yourself) under control. You get him exposed and compromised, and he gets your weak, feigned, but nevertheless _consistent_ performance of nonchalance. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. You can take this for awhile and find ways to rewrite it so that you can guard the remaining shreds of your dignity. 

But then he fucks it all up, like he always does, ruining your roads, slamming into your town, tire tracks and broken concrete everywhere, like the rubble after an earthquake. 

It starts in the garage one weekend evening when things haven’t yet cooled off, but at least you won’t get sunburned just standing around outside. You were talking about an old opponent of yours from the ‘50s, how he figured out your moves and began anticipating them each race, so you had to change your entire repertoire to throw him off, fake him out. McQueen is listening, rapt, wants more background to the story, and you’re _both_ a little tipsy on the last dregs of the Crown Apple bottle that you've been slowly draining all week. It’s sweet and goes down too easy, and you trust him too much, so he’s shrugging on one of your jackets over his bare chest and awful gym shorts with hardly any elastic left in them, holding them up with one hand while he opens the door with the other, hobbling out barefoot, so your only choice is to follow.

“Kid, where are you going?” you ask, kicking on your loafers because you’re not a fucking idiot. He, on the other hand, is yelping because the pavement is burning his bare feet as he skitters off to the dead-bolted garage. “We’re going to your secret bunker with all the old clippings and shit because I wanna see a picture of this _rookie_ who frazzled the Hudson Hornet,” he shoots back at you, his shorts sagging so low that you can see nearly a whole inch of the tender crease of his ass between the bottom hem of your jacket the too-loose waistband, where his already pale skin is even paler, sprinkled in faint, irregular freckles. _Fuck_ , you want to lick them up, and you can’t, but at _least_ you don’t have to stop yourself from staring anymore. He glances back at you over his shoulder, grinning as he hops around, knowing full well what just happened. 

“Jesus, we’re _outside_ old man, get a hold of yourself,” he jokes. 

“You’re the one wearing _gym shorts_ that don’t stay up, running around drunk, burning yourself,” you remind him. “Plus, your tag is out...fix it, you’re embarrassing me.” 

“ _You_ fix it,” he retorts, reaching around and absentmindedly touching the back of his neck without any clear intention of tucking the tag of your jacket in. “Hey, you used to, like, _do_ stuff like that for me, you know, fix my hair or collar when it was turned up. But you stopped once I let you start ogling me. What's up with that, huh?” he asks with such genuine curiosity that it actually makes you laugh as you reach around him to unlock the garage with deceitfully steady hands. 

“I thought the agreement was no touching,” you say, letting your arm brush his to demonstrate how _different_ that sort of casual contact feels now that you get to watch him get hard. But he doesn't flinch away, in fact, he tilts into it like he’s touch-starved, making you dizzy, the burn of apple-whiskey getting sweeter in the back of your throat as he exhales and you can smell it on him, too. “Or did I misunderstand?” you add, wondering how far he might let you push this. The key clicks, the door swings open, and he stumbles a bit, knocking backward into you. 

 

“I meant no, like, _sexual_ touching, but none of the other stuff has to change...I like it when you get my tags for me,” he explains, and the whiskey must be talking because you cannot fucking _fathom_ that he could be so dense, thathe _actually_ doesn’t realize it’s _all the same_ for you. There is no sexual touching or _not_ sexual touching, no more or less intimate way to come into close contact with Lightning McQueen because you’re _in love with him._ You realize with a strange, stark sort of loneliness that he doesn't understand it because it’s _different_ for him. He's not in love, your fingers tender and gentle on the back of his neck means nothing to him, they’re somehow _separate_ from your gaze crawling over his skin, drinking him in like he’s the only water in the whole of this dry, hot desert town.

“Well, then,” you say, reaching up, tucking his tag, and clapping him on the shoulder gently, like it doesn't send electric shocks through your arm, make the hair there stand on end. “It’s fixed. And watch your step, hotshot, there are nails and tools and all sorts of tetanus risks lying around in here.” 

You don’t allow him in the garage very often; he gets too excited and _touches_ all your delicate mementos with his reverent, albeit clumsy, fingers. It's not like you care about this stuff too much or that you have it in any particular order or on display. It’s a mess, really, but you like it that way. He comes and tries to make sense of it, place value in it, and that confuses everything. He holds clippings up to the sun and gazes into the grainy old pictures like he could teleport himself back to 1954 if he tried hard enough. It makes you flustered and hot-faced and tense, to be put under such scrutiny, to bear witness to the ways in which he once worshipped you, maybe still does, at least in these moments. It’s confusing, so you avoid it because the last thing you need is _more_ tension around Lightning McQueen. 

He _loves_ being in here, though, pores over your collection of memories with such attention, such care, always telling you that he’s gonna make you put it all in a museum someday. “Okay, who’s the guy,” he prods, sitting on your rickety spinning chair and scooting to the dusty workbench where you keep all the photos and ribbons and faded numbers. Things you claim you’ll organize one day, even though you have fewer and fewer days left to spend doing anything frivolous, time dwindling to nothing so that when you die, they’ll find a body and a mess of newspapers bearing your name, stacked and crisp in the dusty forgotten darkness of this garage. 

But not if Lightning McQueen has anything to do with it. “This is all so _cool,”_ he marvels, thumbing through everything, hair rucked up in back. Two weeks ago, you would have licked your thumb and smoothed it for him, but things are different now, no matter what he thinks or tries to tell you. “You said he was a rookie in ‘52? Here’s a lineup from that year…your second Piston Cup race, _shit.”_

You come up to stand beside him, taking the delicate paper from his hands. “I’ll find it,” you say. “You’re drunk.” 

“M’not drunk,” he assures you, leaning into your space, cocking his head and digging his teeth into his lower lip because he _knows,_ now, what he does to you. 

“Heh, that's what you think, go drool over the trophies for a minute, will you?” you tell him, elbowing his side, gritting your teeth at the way he leans into the pressure before hopping off the chair and wandering off to pick his way around things carefully, holding up his now-empty whiskey glass like it’s a flashlight that might illuminate his way. 

It’s not until he finds it that it occurs to you he might actually care. 

“What’s this car, under the sheet?” he asks, voice muffled from the layers of dust and tunnels of clutter in here. 

“The Hornet...or what’s left of her,” you reply automatically, too lost in the past to think about it much. 

“Wait, _what?”_ he gasps, tripping so hard that he crashes into something, making you wince at the sound of metal rattling on concrete. “The _Hornet?_ You’ve had her here _this whole time,_ and you never fucking _told me?_ Or considered I might want to _see_ her _? Drive_ her?” 

Before he can fuck anything else up, you find him, breath tight in your throat as he spreads his hands wide and feels the frame of the car through the dusty sheet like it’s a body, like it’s someone he loves. Your stomach drops, and you round on him, grabbing his elbow and tugging him away. “He’s beat up, kid, not just anyone can drive him. And he’s not a _she_.” 

“Oh,” Mcqueen says, eyes suddenly so wide as they hold your own, the heavy weight of your jacket dwarfing him as he sways there, staring back at you with the whole wide blue sky in his irises. “Of course not, I guess that makes sense.” 

“You still want to drive him?” you ask, half-joking as you quirk your eyebrow up, gathering the sheet and carefully pulling it off in teasing increments. 

He holds his breath, and it makes you hold your breath, too, as you reveal the car in all his rebuilt glory, the dents hammered out, the paint job redone. He doesn’t run the same, he never will, but it’s alright. He’s still beautiful, still gets the job done when you need to sneak out in the moonlight and feel alive again. “Fuck, yeah,” McQueen breathes. “Of course I do, I let a gay racer check me out, think I wouldn’t wanna drive a gay race car? It’s the _Hornet,_ Doc.” 

“Nobody drives him but me,” you explain, mouth dry as you watch his careful hands feel along the hood, the fenders, fingers sinking into the space between the tire and the frame, tracing over the detailing in the rims with a prudence that makes your stomach knot up. “He’s sensitive.” 

“ _Please_ ,” he says, standing upright and spinning around so that he’s leaning against the window wearing _your_ jacket, the hollows beneath his clavicles particularly pronounced in the sticky yellow garage light spilling from that single, gnat-encrusted bulb. Your eyes flit over him, and he looks back pleadingly. “You gotta let me _some_ time. Even if it’s just going five around town and back in here. It doesn’t have to be on the track, it can—” 

“No,” you interject easily, shaking your head, taking a step closer so that he backs himself up into the Hornet even further, chest heaving. “It’s non-negotiable.” 

“What would I have to do?” he asks then, eyes getting bright, tongue flitting out to wet his lips in this way that makes your gaze drop to them so _easily,_ like you couldn't stop yourself if you tried. “I’d do—”

“Don’t say anything, not if you don’t mean it,” you remind him. Your throat is tight and your heart is pounding, though, at the mere notion he _might_ do anything to get behind the wheel of your ride. It turns you on so much that you feel sick with it, which is for the better, honestly, because the last thing you want is to push Lightning McQueen into buying things from you with this body. You didn't come up with this, you’re not going to define it, draw up the blueprint, tell him what he needs to do to win the prizes he wants. That’s on him. 

“Okay, not anything,” he agrees, squirming, lips so pink and swollen that you can imagine the wet smear of them under your palm if you were to spread it over his mouth, keeping him quiet while you fingered him up against your car, the heat between his legs fogging up the window. “But _think_ about it, okay? I’d _really_ love to drive her, just once.” 

“Him,” you snap, stepping away, feeling like your foundation has crumbled, like the things you understood about this arrangement or had grown accustomed to are shifting again, the gaps newly flooded with ice water about to freeze over. You thought you had this figured out, but he's changing the game, pulling rookie shit, acting like he doesn't know the rules so he might as well break them. _Offering_ you something so that you actually have to _think_ about it instead of letting him take the wheel while you both pretend you’re the one driving. “Get that right first, at least.” 

“Yes, sir,” he grins at you, following your shadow as you walk back to the workbench where your photos are scattered. You’re shakier now, but you feel more sober than ever, alone in this garage with Lightning McQueen, who lies so much, says he’ll do anything when you _know_ he’d break if you allowed the force of everything you feel to flood him, to choke down his throat. He wouldn’t be able to breathe, you think, if you asked him for what you really wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting awkward!!!! Thanks everyone!

You can’t stop thinking about the Hornet. 

There in the garage, burning up under a sheet, driving you absolutely _crazy_ by being undriven, untouched. You _want_ to touch her. _Him._

You keep trying to tell yourself that Doc sort of owes you this after getting to look you up and down, confusing the hell out of you with the way his gaze makes you hot and shaky and _wanting,_ hungry for things you don’t have words for and can hardly begin to understand. In the end, though, none of the hoops you jump through to get there ever stick. You know that _you_ made this happen, that your confusion is your cross to bear, that the terms of this agreement are your own. He’s not doing anything save for what you told him he could do. He owes you jack shit, _you’re_ the one who’s living for free in his guest house, chipping in money for groceries but still drinking his amazing coffee, using his fancy detergent to get your clothes so soft and smell so good. If letting him look is payment, it’s for all of _that._ It doesn’t mean you should get anything new in exchange. 

If you want more, you’ll have to _do_ more, and that’s something you spend a few days thinking about, often and in much detail. The thing is, there isn’t _much_ you can think of within the realm of possibility that turns you off so much that it’s an absolute _no._ You’re pretty sure you’d allow Doc nearly anything he asked of you, and that in and of itselfis what bothers you more than any scenario you can work up in your head. You feel like there should be some _limit,_ a boundary you’d like to firmly lay down with Doc, but there just…isn’t. You trust him too much, and you share space with him so closely _already_ that anything beyond his eyes on your body isn't repulsive or terrifying, it’s just _more_ of what you’re already experiencing: safe, comfortable, compelling titillation. 

Maybe it’s because you only have a pretty foggy and nebulous idea of how men have sex beyond blow jobs. You haven’t given much thought to the realm outside of what you gleaned from your hazy, panicked thumb-through of one of his magazines, but even when you imagine _those_ on the table, it’s not the worst thing in the world, not by a long shot. 

If Doc asked to blow you, you’d let him. It’d probably be really _good_ , he’s probably sucked a lot of dicks, and he’s careful and slow and precise at everything he does, so the idea of his mouth on you actually makes your stomach drop, your hands sweat. Of course, maybe he’d ask _you_ to blow him, and that’s scarier but still not out of the question. He’s extremely clean and well-groomed, and you love the smell of his body wash, you use it as often as you can, so you feel like even if it would be super fucking _weird_ , it wouldn't be _unpleasant._ Certainly not as unpleasant as your own messy, drunken history of NASCAR banquet after parties, two girls at once, faces you didn't remember the morning after, sheets smelling like champagne and piss, long black hairs on your hotel pillow and nothing but a headache and nail marks on your back to show for it. You don’t _want_ to suck cock, not actively, but you want to drive the Hornet, and you’ve done worse shit for less. And _certainly_ with worse folks than Doc. 

You psych yourself up to talk to him about it, to tell him that you’d be willing to get on your knees and open your mouth for him, if that’s what it takes. 

Turns out that’s not what happens, and you should be relieved, but it’s hard to feel anything when you keep getting knocked over by waves of confusion in an endless, relentless tide. 

You’re sitting together on the couch after dinner one night, thumbing through his pitiful DVD collection as you try to figure out what to watch. You keep considering bringing up the Hornet and chickening out at the last minute, a strange breed of silence crawling up your throat and making you hot-cheeked and short of breath, sputtering there next to him while he stoically searches through your queue, legs crossed, eyes fixed decidedly away from you while you try and fail to win his attention, spreading your thighs, tilting toward him, _displaying_ yourself. 

“You sure want to take that old car out for a spin, don't you,” he says after a moment of silence, and you wither, giving up on your game and drawing your knees up to your chest, sagging into the cushions. 

“Fuck, am I that obvious?” you grumble. 

“Yes and then some,” he quips, setting the remote down and turning to you, expression thoughtful, amused. “You think my whole life is for sale, huh? That I’m easy? Ole Doc hasn’t gotten action in so long he’ll—”

“Fuck, no, stop,” you say desperately, insides crawling up and tying themselves into a knot because you _hate_ when he implies that you think anything less than the world of him. _You’re_ the pitiful one here, the one who’s throwing yourself at him for ten seconds behind the wheel of a busted wreck. 

This always happens: _right_ when you start to think that you’ve got something on him, he reminds you where the power lies, where it _always_ lies. “I’m just stupid, m’sorry.” 

He shakes his head, chewing his lip, and you want to sink into the couch. You thought you looked good in nothing but one of your better, tighter-fitting pairs of briefs, blue and white stripes under a ribbed tank-top, like you might _entice_ him into negotiating with you or something, but now you just feel like you were trying too hard, like every single one of your efforts was grossly transparent. And _Doc_ deserves better than that, he’s right. He’s not desperate for your shows, your cock, even your mouth. If he was, you wouldn’t be feeling so _shaken_ all the time. 

“I don’t want you to do anything you regret,” he says, rubbing at his chin with his knuckles, eyes still drawn away from you, studying the edges of the coffee table like they’re roads to drive on, to carry you both out of this scorching desert somewhere where you might not catch fire. 

“I don’t…I’m not going to regret anything,” you say honestly, shifting again, angling your hips toward him like you can’t control it. “I’m not a _kid,_ okay? I won’t do anything I don't want to or that I’m not _willing_ to do, at least. I think about it, about my limits, believe it or not.” 

“Hmm,” he says, turning to you finally, eyes ice-blue and cool but still so bright that they drive something sharp right through you. It’s crazy, how hard it is to think of _words,_ or of anything else, when Doc is looking at you like that. “Glad to know you’re not stumbling into this totally blind.” 

“M’not,” you assure him, traitorous, treacherous body getting hot under his eyes, like it always does. This might get you something more than humiliation this time, so you lean into it, parting your thighs again, hooking your thumb into the waistband of your shorts as he finally, _finally_ takes you in. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“Do you?” he asks absently, tongue flashing over his lower lip in this way that makes your heart start to pound. It wasn't too hot in here before, you don’t even have the air-conditioning on tonight, but suddenly you’re pouring sweat, so much so that it’s slicking up his couch, leaving a wet mark under your thigh as you shift on the shiny leather. “You know what you'd do for a drive?” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, pulling up the hem of your shirt to show your stomach. It’s a gamble; you sometimes do things without knowing whether or not he’ll like them, if they’re porn or the parody of it, but his breath catches as your fingers brush over the trail of hair beneath your navel, you _see_ it. You hardly ever get glimpses of Doc’s arousal so when you do it, it’s like _Christmas,_ enough to drop your stomach, make you feel like a voyeur, even though _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to be looking. “I know.” 

There’s a moment that passes, long and slow and hazy, where you smolder. Your skin is dewy and too hot as his gaze crawls over you, so hungry and careful that you feel like you’re an accident on the road, getting this old man to rubberneck. And then, without even _meaning to,_ you’re so fucking hard for him all of the sudden. Swelling up, leaking out onto those stripes, chest heaving in time with his breaths as they quicken at the sight of you getting thick in your briefs.

There are so many layers to this moment that you can’t even remember who started it, and maybe if you _weren’t_ hard, you’d have the sense to stop yourself, to wonder why this is happening, but with his eyes on you and your fingers tracing your own ribs, you’re lost to it, you can’t think straight. _I’d suck you,_ you think, meaning it, throat thick with the idea. And you’d do it _for_ something, for a _reason_ , but you can’t remember what that _is_ right now, not with his eyes flaying you, pinning you to cork board. So you just stare right back at him, gut knotted, cock pulsing, brain a mess of static and longing.

“Look at you,” he breathes, shaking his head. “This…all of this, it turns you on, you’d do so much to get behind that wheel,” his voice comes out in a hush like he’s marveling, like he thinks you’re the wildest, most improbable thing. You’re about to tell him all you’d do when he looks deliberately and lingeringly at your crotch and asks, “Would you take it out for me? Let me see?” 

And it’s _nothing_ compared to all you’ve imagined, all you’ve worked to come to terms with in the last few days, that you almost burst out laughing. “Fuck,” you say, shoving your hand under your waistband, fisting along your length. “You just want to see it?” 

“Is that okay?” he asks, smoothing down the leg of his own sweats with an open palm, and, _god,_ you want to tell him it’s more than okay, he could get away with so much more. 

“Yeah, it’s absolutely fine,” you tell him, smearing your fingers through the precum beading at your slit, making everything sticky. “It’s not…not that impressive, though, just fyi. I’m not big, never have been,” you explain, remembering that this is something you should tell people because it’s been disappointing in the past. You’ve lived through enough dismissals and scoffs to know. It’s _not_ big, in fact, it’s _small,_ even when fully hard. You've always been wearing at least _some_ clothes when Doc has gotten a good look at you, so it hasn’t mattered, you could convince him that it was a lead-up rather than the full extent, but that won’t work as well now. Not when you’re clearly full to capacity, trembling, spread out for him with your fist in your shorts and nothing else to hide because you can’t remember why you meant to hide it in the first place.

“I like that,” he tells you, palming over his own thigh again, throat rippling as he swallows. _God_ , you would fix your mouth there, you would lick the stubble and rough up your tongue if you were gay and this were something more than a means by which you might get to drive your favorite car. “When it’s small, I mean. I... _god, Jesus,_ look at that,” he breathes because you’re pulling it out, tucking the waistband of your shorts under your balls so that he can see your cock, every inch of it, small and imperfect and _so,_ so hard that it’s making you ache. 

He crosses his legs tighter, leans close. “You’ll touch it for me?” he murmurs, voice nothing but a low scrape. 

“M’hm, I will, of course I will,” you assure him, working your first over your length, twisting at the top, making sure to smear the precum so that everything’s wet and sticky and shiny. “I’ll touch myself for you, old man.” 

It seems like such a _little_ thing to offer, but he trembles so much, tilts into you so significantly, brow ducking close enough to yours that you can smell the oil he uses in his hair, the sweat beading there on his brow. “God, you’re hard, why’re you so hard, kid? Me _looking..._ that does it for you?” 

“God, yeah, you make...I feel good, like I look good,” you babble, hand working fast and hard and clumsy as you fist your cock, licking your lips as you think about his, how they’d know what the fuck they were doing if they dropped to encircle you, tight and hot and wet, _fuck,_ god. You’re trembling, your hand is shaking, thank Christ your forearm is steady from years of gripping the wheel. “Doc,” you gasp helplessly, even though you’re not sure what you mean, besides that you’d kiss him back if he pressed his mouth to yours, which you’ve imagined, once or twice, wrapped up into other imaginings. It’s easy to lose sight of stuff, though, when you’re here, sweat pouring down your back, cock leaking over your fist as he licks his lips raw. 

“You _do_ look good,” he assures you, shaking his head, a flush appearing on his cheeks. “You look goddamned perfect.”

“You don’t care it’s...I dunno. That’m not that big?” you ask, even though you can _tell_ that he really likes it. You wonder why, if it makes him feel better about himself, to witness something so humiliating about you, or if it’s just an objective thing, like he prefers the way it looks, the way it were to feel in his big hand if he ever touched you. 

“Jesus, kid,” he chokes out. “Are you kidding? That’s...god, that’s the perfect mouthful, you’re fucking perfect,” is what he says, and you realize he means that he could fit you in his _mouth,_ and without even realizing it, you’re crying out, head lolling back onto the couch and face screwing up into something ugly as you shoot off, come hot as it lands on your own chest, your wrist. “Fuck,” he groans, and you can feel his eyes remaining on you as you lie there in a static haze, head thrown back, breath labored, heart pounding so hard that you can feel your body trembling in time with it. You wait for the weirdness or the guilt to sink in as the throes of your orgasm fade, but nothing changes. You still like that he’s looking, you’re still fucked up over the thought that he might want more, that he called your cock a _mouthful._

He gets up, couch squeaking and shifting under you as your eyes flutter open. “We’ll take him out tomorrow, _together._ Supervised,” he clarifies as he disappears, and you hear the sound of the bathroom door shutting behind him, the tap running to mask any other sounds that might be happening therein. 

And as you lie there in a ruin on Doc’s couch, you try and make sense of whatever he just said to you, memory hazy, body loose, even if your stomach is one big knot. It takes you entirely too long to figure out that he’s talking about the Hornet, and you try to be excited, to feel triumphant for winning your prize, but that’s just…not the thing that’s at the forefront of your mind, for some reason. 

\---

The brakes are gone on this thing, you’re hurtling down the track at 150 miles per hour, gaining speed, and there’s no way to stop. 

The worst part about it is that you don’t even _want_ to stop, not really. You’re alright crashing, you think, as long as you get to keep watching Lightning McQueen touch himself, come right there in front of you with his ribcage heaving and flushed, painted in white for you at _least_ twice a week. 

It’s like clockwork, the way he zeros in on you, seeks you out even if you’re tired from work or deliberately trying to see if you can last the night without checking him out too obviously because you’re curious about how much control you have over this thing. It turns out that you have _none_ ;every time he goes there, you follow, no matter your plans to resist, no matter how badly you want to prove that you aren’t as gone for him as you fucking feel. 

_He_ always initiates it, though, getting his cock out for you to watch him touch. You can look at him all you want, but never since that first night have you _asked_ him to take himself in hand. He does it all on his own now, usually after he’s had a few beers and it’s extra hot outside, like the summer drives him crazy, thins out his judgment like melted ice cubes in otherwise straight whiskey. He’ll get that look in his eyes, a little wild, a little desperate, his eyes extra blue, his lips extra pink because he chews them more when he’s about to tumble off the precipice. 

The craziest thing about it is that you don’t really feel like he’s showing off for you. On paper, of course, that’s what it is, but in practice, it feels so much more like this is about _him,_ not you. For his own benefit, like he just doesn’t get _off_ as good without you showing him how, giving him directions. It’s dangerous because it means that you get to see him doing exactly what _you_ like, touching himself how _you_ would touch him if the universe fractured and allowed such a thing to happen, every rule to be broken. 

Before this, he probably got himself off fast and dirty, no technique, no _experience._ But you don’t want him to rush through it, so once it becomes a habit, you start suggesting things, and he starts taking cues. You teach him exactly how to get _off_ , how to make it harder, longer, which in turn makes you feel _delirious_ with power. Or perhaps just with loving him since that seems to be at the heart of all this, the thread that keeps the messy tapestry of feeling cohesive, albeit loosely sewn together. You won't _ask_ him to touch himself, but once he starts doing it, you’ll guide it whereever you want it. 

It starts with lube because he always tries to jack it dry, and you don’t understand _why_ when he can make it messy, slick, smooth. You let him sit shotgun while you take the Hornet out for a spin around town, after the sun has set and you’re sure that you won’t run into anyone: even though they all _know_ about your racing history by now, you don't like to parade it. He’s so thrilled for you to chauffeur him around that he doesn't even beg to get behind the wheel that first time, he just gushes over you, asks you a million questions, buzzing like an over-excited kid even after you park it in the garage and head back into the house, exhausted by his enthusiasm. 

After sitting down at the kitchen table while you put the dinner leftovers away, he must decide that he wants to _thank_ you or something, show his appreciation, because he just whips it right out, starts palming himself slowly and steadily as he watches you. 

“Don’t tell me a ride in the Hornet got you hot,” you quip, trying to keep your voice level, even as you grip the edge of the counter, suddenly unsteady. You can see the motion of his hand out of the corner of your eye, and you _could_ tear away, _leave_ him here since you didn’t _ask_ him for his show, but you don’t. That's not the point of this thing, so you turn around, lean back, and cross your arms over your chest while you follow his strokes with your eyes, imagine how salty he’d taste, everything coated in a fine, clean layer of post-shower perspiration.

“M’just...I don’t want you to think m’ungrateful,” he gets out, voice choppy and breathless because he’s tugging on himself in earnest now, the whole of his little cock concealed in the curl of his fist. 

“Oh, is that it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow because you don’t believe him. “Slow down _,_ kid, I can’t even see it. Let go, for a second...gimme a good look.” 

He whines, sliding his sticky hand down onto his thigh so that his perfect fucking cock flexes against his belly, so wet at the tip that you see it shine in the low light of your kitchen. “Like this?” 

“Yeah, like that...gorgeous,” you breathe, watching his labored inhalations, the way his fingers are pressing into his quads so hard that they dimple, like he can’t even stand not to touch himself for a few seconds, greedy and raw. “Don’t you ever _tease?_ Draw it out? Or do you do everything like a race?” 

“Uh,” he stutters, cock flexing again, a glistening filament of precum connecting the head to his abdominals, so fucking lovely. “I guess I usually just do it...start and finish, you know.”

“Not much fun in that, not much to watch,” you tell him, meaning not _just_ for you, even though you’re sure it comes across that way, that you need him to show you more, give you more of a performance. But really, you just want to see him _feeling_ good, and you know how to do that, how to make it better. “Hold on a sec...don’t touch yourself, just sit there, I’ll be right back.” 

He groans as you leave, mouth dry and heart in your throat when you realize that he’s holding off because you _told him to,_ he’s doing whatever you say. Your bedroom feels too quiet and too clean for the dirty thing that’s happening outside, so you’re in and out, grabbing the KY from your bedside drawer and bringing it out to him, setting it down on the table rather than handing it off, knowing you won’t survive the brush of fingers if he idly touches you. “Lube?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at the bottle, grip white-knuckled when he reaches for it. “I’m not sticking anything up—”

“ _Jesus,_ kid, no…just to jack off, makes it smoother. Get a handful and try it out,” you instruct, cheeks suddenly hot, sweat at your temples. You think a lot about fingering Lightning open, splitting him apart, licking him out, you can just _tell_ that he’s the sort of boy who’s never felt anything remotely like it, and you’re certain he’d absolutely _moan_ for it, the whole of him reduced to trembles, to gasps. You don’t _need_ the reminder that it’ll never happen, though, that this, whatever _this_ is, means something different to him. You don't understand how he rationalizes any of it, how lubing his cock while you watch is somehow _less gay_ than lubing his hole, but somehow he manages to reconcile his hypocrisy, and it’s your job to respect that, to honor his boundaries even if they’re written in a different language and don't make a single lick of sense to you. 

“This is messy,” he observes, at least without judgement, palm shining as he coats his pretty little dick, gets it all slippery. “You like messy?” 

“It _works_ better that way,” you argue, though you _do_ love the look of this, the way that it’s dripping down to his balls, pooling on your kitchen chair where you sit in the mornings and drink your coffee while you do the crossword. _God,_ he's everywhere, cementing himself into every corner of your home, so that when he leaves you, it'll be haunted, so many filthy, gorgeous images of him floating around like ghosts. 

“Shit,” he whines, letting his head fall back, sweat glinting on his Adam’s apple as it bobs with each frantic swallow. “S’getting everywhere.” 

“Feel good?” you ask because you want to know, _need_ to know if he feels as good as he looks right now, wrist flexing with each twist over the head of his cock, forearm tight and freckled and sunburnt and perfect.

“Yeah, feels really good, really...uh, slick, _fuck,”_ he keens, stopping the motion and just squeezing his shaft for a second, like he’s staving off an orgasm. 

“Look at you, teasing yourself, so good,” you murmur, rubbing at your jaw, the scrub of your own stubble doing little to distract you from how badly you want to touch yourself. You refuse to give that up, though, _he_ has to be the one dripping down his spasming thighs, teasing up the underside of his cock with a single wet finger, like anything more than that will push him over the edge, and he knows you’re not done with him. “Touch your chest...squeeze your nipple,” you order, getting creative since you’re _allowed_ that now. 

His eyes fly open. “My _nipple?_ he asks incredulously, like he’s never heard of such a thing. His hand is moving anyway, leaving trails of lube up his ribcage as he thumbs under the cut of his pectoral curiously. “M’not a girl.” 

“Oh, I know you aren’t, kid,” you say, gaze fixed on his cock, on the way it’s twitching in his other hand, so swollen and red and juicy that you can almost _taste_ it, definitely smell it, the sharp, musky bite of his arousal coming off him in waves, the heat making it worse. “Doesn’t mean it doesn't feel good, so go ahead.” 

He frowns and starts pinching his nipples, which are little and pink but _puffy_ all the same, like they’re irritated from the shift of his shirt, just _meant_ to be sucked on and played with. You watch the left one draw tight under his fingers, the flush climb down his throat, cock leaking. “S’weird.” 

“You can stop if you want to,” you remind him, but he ignores you, razing his blunt nails over his sternum, fist working over his little length so rhythmically that you can hear the filthy _snick_ of lube, his breath coming out short and fast. “You don’t want that, though...feels good, I can tell.” 

“Fuck,” he grinds out, shifting on the chair, sliding around in the mess of lube and sweat, pinching his nipple, twisting it. “Can I finish?” he asks, then, like he needs _permission,_ and, _god,_ you're already thick and heavy in your trousers, but this makes you twitch, smear of precum on the inside of your boxers. You nod because you can’t speak, and he gasps and spills all over himself, just like the first time but _more,_ thicker pulses all over his hand and rubbed-pink chest. 

“Hmmm,” you say, shaking your head at him. “I’d hate to see you left to your own devices...done in a minute, chafed raw with no lube. You’re gonna learn a thing or two, son.” 

“I bet if you let me actually _drive_ the Hornet, I’d learn a few things more,” he wheezes, voice hoarse, lips bitten so red that you’re not even thinking of kissing them, you’re thinking of pushing your fingers inside, feeling the slick ring around your knuckles. 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” you shoot back, thumbing along your own jawline, trying so hard not to let him hear how hard your heart is pounding. You’re in _way_ over your head, you’re realizing. Out to sea without a life vest, treading water until your legs give out and you slip under. “Clean up that mess, will you? There’s lube all over my chair.” 

“The lube was _your_ idea, old man,” he calls after you as you leave to touch yourself alone in the bathroom, behind a locked door. You do it dry and fast and shameful, just like you told him not to, and come into the toilet, sad gobs dissolving into nothingness as you press your forehead to the wall above the tank, shoulders heaving like they do when you sob, which you haven't done for at least twenty years. Your throat is peculiarly thick right now, though, your eyes prickling with something hot and sudden, so you stand up, tuck yourself back into your pants, and suck in a rattling breath. Your hands are shaking as you turn on the tap and splash some cold water onto your face, and try as you might, you can’t think of anything but Lightning McQueen doing everything you told him to do, eyes wide as they tracked you, _listened_ to you. 

When you come back out, he’s on the couch and fully dressed, body visibly loose and sated, cheeks still flushed, though he’s finger-combed his hair back out of his face into something resembling order. “Good?” he asks with a smirk, pressing the rim of his beer bottle to his lower lip and making it dimple. 

“Pick a movie,” you reply, sitting down beside him but as far away as you can muster while still being on the same couch. He ends up sidling up close to you anyway, his leg pressed flush to yours, like you’re _not_ thinking about what that soft red-gold hair looks like matted down and shiny with lube. _Fuck._

From here on out, he generalizes your requests, and that just makes it even fucking worse. 

He uses lotion every time now, getting it everywhere, cupping his balls, teasing over the slit in little swirls, _playing_ with himself more than jerking off, really, holding your gaze while he does it as if you dared him and he’s just following through. He pinches his nipples sometimes, rubs his come up over them after he shoots off onto his chest and makes them shiny, like this is _designed_ for you, _about you_. And it would be fine, if that was the case, if you _bought it._ But you don’t. You don’t _believe_ this is about you and what you want because he’s the one flaying apart to bits, the one exploding in front of you, gasping and red-faced and ruined every time. It doesn’t actually seem like he does this shit to put on a show for you, it seems like you _unlocked_ this stuff for him, and now he’s addicted, _knows_ it’s better, _knows_ he needed it all along. 

And it drives you crazy because it proves the awful, self-destructive, self- _indulgent_ suspicion that keeps you up at night: that you know how to fuck Lightning McQueen better than he knows how to fuck himself. Better than he's _ever_ fucked himself or fucked a girl or been fucked before. You would be the best thing he’s ever had. 

So all the shit you dream about, every shameful thought you have about bending him in half and holding him open and eating him out, of keeping him sucking your fingers for hours until he begs for the real thing, are rooted in _reality._ In the undeniable fact that he falls apart for you, and you haven’t even _touched_ him. 

And you never _will,_ and it feels more and more like a grave you’re hurtling toward at 200 miles an hour, no breaks. All you can do is hold on and wait to crash, to be buried. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a big one, and when things really start to shift. Hello Miami! Also, there are some mentions of HIV/AIDS in this section so if thats something that's upsetting to you then be careful! Also, this is as good a time as any to announce there will be a sequel to this story :)))) HUGE HUGE thank you to everyone reading this especially Thais who keeps me alive with her live-readings ILY bb.

July draws ever nearer, which means you’ll soon be Florida-bound for the Miami Speedway since they’re hosting this season’s semifinals. You’re training hard, perhaps harder than you ever have, because you’re _living_ with your crew chief, and your whole world has sort of become about pleasing him, making him _proud._ Right now, nothing else makes you feel higher, or _happier,_ not even the rush of the race. So you pour yourself into it wholeheartedly, getting up early to run laps around town before the sun comes up, ordering one of those hand-exercise, grippy things off Amazon to strengthen your wrists and fingers so you’ll stop seizing up at the wheel. 

Doc makes fun of you, but he clearly eats it up at the same time. Whether or not he admits it, he loves being the most important thing in your life, next to (entwined with?) racing, so he matches your efforts in his own way, relinquishing more responsibilities at the clinic that he refuses to properly retire from, actually putting trust into the new “rookie doctor” as he calls her, dropping his morning shifts so that he can come out to the track with you, chase your car with the Hornet, leave you gasping and thrilled. 

So little has _changed,_ in some ways. He's still the same old Doc, dry and a little mean, just enough to make you step outside yourself and rethink the ways in which your ego fucks you up, drives you off cliffs and into cacti. He's still the only one who gets to _laugh_ at you, watch you fail over and over again, then clap you on the shoulder when it's all over and murmur, _You did a good job today, son. M’proud._

It’s just…sometimes, at night, he _also_ gets to see you spread out and gasping, hand on your cock. 

You have no problem separating these things, or perhaps imperfectly fusing them, knitting them together in such a way that the messy spaces between the stitches make sense. It doesn’t _matter,_ the other stuff, because at the core of your relationship is _this_ : the track, the dirt, the way you _never_ thought you’d have a crew chief, _never_ thought you’d listen to an old-timer until you found him, the Hudson Hornet and his three Piston Cups, his ice-blue eyes that cut into you, that leave you cross-hatched in scars. 

It doesn’t affect your _racing,_ that he also gets off on seeing you come or that _you_ get off on _him_ getting off on it. That’s _different,_ a product of your living situation, the things you lost (or gained) after Sally dumped you. But racing…racing is another beast, you think. It exists pure and untainted between you, this _need_ you share to go as fast as you possibly can, to risk your lives and come out the other side, breathing, unbleeding, against all odds.

Maybe these dynamics could exist side by side without touching for all of eternity if you made sure that they never melted together like crayons left out in the sun. But then there's Miami, the hotel you booked without thinking: one room, two beds, Doc _so close_ when you’re used to sleeping down the hall from him, tucked away in the guest room like a secret. You’re not sure that you have words for _why,_ but the proximity of his body seems like something that could prove difficult for you, down the line. 

You don’t _want_ Miami to be awkward, and maybe it won’t be, maybe you’ll have your head so far into the game that you won’t be tempted by the endless challenge of attempting to unravel him when you know he’s unravelable. 

You sleep against his shoulder for most of the flight, which probably doesn’t help set any precedents or boundaries ahead of time. He smells good, though, like home, and you're tired and wrung out from early morning ice baths in the tub after uphill desert jogs, so it’s _easy_ to nod right off against him, cheek pressed to his jacket lapel. And maybe a few months ago, he'd have sat there stoically and pretended like you were annoying, but things are different between you, now, so when no one is looking, he reaches up and pets your hair, gently, if only for the second it takes for his fingers to card through it. “You’re gonna get a crick in your neck,” he tells you, voice nothing but a murmur against your brow, soft and sweet. “You should lie against the window.” 

“Better here,” you hum, kicking off your shoes and bringing your knees to your chest since there’s plenty of room to spread out here in first class, and he's the most comfortable thing to prop yourself up onto. You inhale his cologne, his detergent, all the stuff you've grown accustomed to like a second heartbeat, and rub your cheek into his clothes. “If I drool, you can move me.” 

“Okay, kid,” he chuckles, fingers on your pulse for a moment before they fall away, before you drift back to sleep. And maybe it’ll be _fine_ that he’s sleeping so close in the hotel room, maybe it’ll be _comforting,_ just like this is. And you either won’t get hard over it or you will, and you’ll just have to _deal_ with it. Those crossed wires, more and more the deeper you dig into your own circuitry. 

You wake up in Miami, and just like that, you’re definitely _not_ in Radiator Springs anymore. No one here, in this airport or city or _state,_ really, knows anything about the two of you. They won’t be making excuses to justify the way you touch, the way you love him, they’re gonna turn it into something ugly, _or try to,_ if you give them the chance. You peel away from him and rub your face, chugging some water from your hydroflask to clear your head while you disembark. “We’re in the south, sorta, right?” you ask him as you head from the terminal to the baggage claim, head still groggy. There are so many white women with chihuahuas here, it seems unreal. Leopard print visors, Bermuda shorts, neon pink and pale orange _everywhere,_ like these are the official colors emblazoned on Florida’s state flag. 

Doc shoulders your luggage off the turnstile, hair oil glinting under the airport fluorescents. He’s got to be about as old as half the folks here, with their bingo cards and walkers, but he doesn't _seem_ that old, not by a long shot. He’s something different, and so are you, so it feels weird to be among them, trying and failing to blend in. “I hate retirement communities,” he gripes bitterly while you wait for a taxi outside the terminal, everything sweltering but _humid_ ; at least Radiator Springs is _dry._ You’re already sweating down your sides, anticipating the way this will feel on the track, the relentless scorch of it. “I feel like they’re gonna cart me off.” 

“Hey,” you say gently, palming over his elbow, his jacket crinkling under your fingers. He’s probably sweating under it, just like you are under your t-shirt, but you _never_ see Doc sweat in a noticeable way, he’s always dabbing at his forehead with the cotton pocket squares he carries like it’s still the fucking ‘50s. You wonder if Florida’s heat will unravel the unravelable, beat you to the punch. “You’re a million times better than than _these_ old-timers, old-timer,” you joke, shooting him a grin, your aviators sliding down your nose in a slick of sweat. “I got you.” 

He seems to think that’s funny, chuckling in the specifically self-deprecating way reserved exclusively for things you hardly understand. You climb into the taxi with your luggage, and as the car weaves jerkily through traffic, palm trees slide by, blue skies, everything hot and rippling and bright through the windows, surreal and larger than life, like this is a diorama and not a real city at all. 

Doc checks you in to the hotel just as it’s starting to get dark, and you have the bellboy take your stuff up without bothering to get your trunks out. Underwear is _fine,_ it’s late on a Wednesday, and you don't think anyone’s hankering for a swim with the same blind neediness that you are, so you’re confident you can get away with it. “Meet me back down here,” you tell Doc as he disappears behind the sliding door of the elevator, and then you’re off, ordering a vodka martini at the lobby bar to bring out to the glittering turquoise pool just beyond a white metal gate.

The martini is in a plastic cup, which makes you feel slightly less glamorous, but still, you sip it, sitting on the concrete edge with your legs kicked over the side, water tepid but still chilled enough that you can cool down in it, bleach your mind, chase the shit you don't want to think about away into the sunset. 

You’re already half-drunk when Doc comes down to meet you, wearing a pair of navy trunks and the white, cushy hotel robe loosely tied over his chest. “Damn” you say, swaying, holding up your plastic cup with nothing but ice and an olive in it. “I’ve been living with you for, what…four months now? And I’ve _never_ seen so much skin, guess I just had to take you to the old-folks home in Florida to know you _actually_ wear shorts to swim.” 

“Guess so, not a single swimming pool back in Radiator Springs,” he deadpans, sitting down next to you gingerly before putting his feet in the water, everything lit in green, strange and glowing. You watch the black and silver hair of his legs become sodden, and it makes you feel crazy, makes your stomach force itself up into your throat. 

“Wow, I’m like a Victorian lady, freaking out over your ankles,” you admit, sliding off the side of the pool and into it, water hitting you somewhere around your waist, licking against your skin as you stumble, your black briefs clinging to you. “Are you gonna _swim_ swim with me or just sit there and laugh at me while I do it?” 

He shakes his head, pushing his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose thoughtfully as he regards you in this way that makes you _insane_ it’s so unreadable. You wish you knew what he was thinking, sometimes, in moments like these when the generational gap is enough to make you feel like you speak different languages. “Depends,” he says, kicking out so that you get splashed, hair suddenly slicked against your face, mouth open in shock. “You gonna shell out some of those big NASCAR bucks to buy _me_ a fancy drink?” 

“I _will_ if you want,” you sputter, deciding to dip under just to end it all, to commit to being wet. There’s a balmy breeze, but you’re not cold, even as you surface, bangs plastered to your face. “I can open a tab.” 

“Or,” he says, opening up the dorky, old-man messenger bag he brought down and fishing inside. You suspect it’s full of stuffy novels, maybe a notebook of racing stats, if you’re lucky. Maybe a towel. But instead, he pulls out a bottle of scotch, and your heart skips at how much you love him, how you hardly need anyone else in your life when you have Doc and his careful hands, his thoughtful mind. “I can top that olive off with this.” 

“Fuck yeah,” you murmur gratefully, swimming up between his legs, offering your glass, which he takes before pushing you away, foot to your heart. Fuck, you didn’t realize you were being _suggestive,_ you never do. It’s the way you _are_ around him, close and pushy, because he _lets_ you be close and pushy, he silently encourages it, whether he realizes it or not, by being stoic and hard to crack. The obsessive part of you is hooked, wants to dig and dig until you figure out what’s going on behind the layers of ice and silence because you _know_ that he feels as much as you do underneath, maybe as messily as you do, too. You know because he surprises you all the time by suddenly being goofy or sarcastic, snagging you where you’re gullible, so you push, you needle, you slide your hands where you can fit them, sometimes just _forgetting_ that there are times and places for such things, that you can get him hot without meaning to. Or that getting him hot _even if_ you mean to looks different here than it does in Radiator Springs. Shit like that can get you thrown out of hotel pools, or worse, in Florida. 

“God,” he says, handing you the plastic cup back, melting ice and a lone olive, scotch diluting the martini dredges. “I shouldn’t be feeding you booze, there’s a race in four days.” 

“Four days is an eternity, grandpa,” you joke, toasting the bottle as he swigs straight from the neck of it, reserved and suave on the edge of the pool, his robe falling open. _Fuck_ , the Hudson Hornet, you _see_ that sometimes, the effortless ‘50s cool threaded into Doc, the black in his hair, the ripple of his throat. Beautiful beautiful beautiful, like a magazine, like the stuff of dreams. “From here, to eternity,” you elaborate after taking a long, deep sip. “Like the old war movie.” 

It burns, you cough, and the pool water feels particularly warm on your skin up against your heart beat. “You’ve seen that?” Doc asks, amused, wiping his mouth and mustache with the back of his hand, forcing you to imagine the scrape of it all against delicate skin. 

“No,” you admit. “All I know is there's a big kiss, like, in the ocean. Real romantic,” you add, kicking out off the side, letting yourself float with your gaze trained up to the sky, drink unsteady in your hand. “Remember when I used to be really romantic?” you ask, eyes closing, though stars still erupt behind the lids. 

“No,” Doc tells you, voice somewhere between an accusation and a laugh. “I remember your girlfriend leaving you before you moved in with me.” 

You look at him in time to catch him shrugging off the robe to hop off the side and into the water, and for some reason it feels like a forbidden spectacle to witness, some rare-ass, precious thing, like a butterfly migration. The water mutedly splashes around his body, and you feel weird and jealous of the way it gets to touch him, noticing his scar tissue in narrow strips across his chest, salt-and-pepper hair thick and curly between his still-firm pecs. You imagine it rough against your cheek and shake your head, longing for the simple crash of old-movie ocean against old-movie shore for a moment. “I used to be romantic,” you assure him, sipping your scotch too quickly, letting yourself float, gaze trained up at the swaying palms so that it isn’t locked on the parts of Doc Hudson you’ve never seen before. “With those brand endorsement girls, the sorts who, like…hold Fiji water, just trying to catch their big break.” 

He honest-to-god laughs at that, enough for the water to tremble into little waves that break against your body as he swims closer. “A real Casanova, huh? Lightning McQueen, breaker of hearts.” 

“Stop,” you giggle, ice cubes against your teeth. It sort of hurts, but at least it’s cold after so many hours of scorching, inescapable heat. “I hate the way you say my name...it sounds so stupid, so _obviously_ fake,” you whine, lazily splashing him. His arms look so big and thick right now, every inch of him much _broader_ than you’ve ever imagined, in all the times that you’ve imagined him without a shirt. It’s surprising and therefore dizzying, so you look away. 

“Oh, so you’re telling me that _Lightning_ isn't your real name? Or is McQueen the fake bit? Do tell,” he says dryly, and if you were closer, you'd smack him, lay your palm flat and brief and smarting against that seldom-seen skin to remind him that you’re not a fucking idiot. He’s far away, though, drifting back to the concrete side to sip scotch straight from the bottle while you watch. 

“McQueen is real,” you explain, feeling defensive even though you _hate_ your dad for everything he did and _didn’t_ do when he disappeared. The only good thing he left you was his accidental racing legacy last name, and you'll take it without guilt, without remorse, pretend that you’re connected to the King of Cool instead of an alcoholic traveling salesman who hasn’t bothered to look you up in twenty-some odd years. “My garbage dad...it was his name. My first name is his, too, but I left that behind a long time ago. It’s a stupid name, anyway,” you mumble, shrugging, your skin crawling at the memory. Not of him, you have no memories of him, but of your mom crying while she doled out cash from a manila envelope for groceries, her face aging so many years in six months. Your entire past feels dirty by association, so you try not to think of it too hard, pushing it out and drinking your drink like it’s a race. 

“Will I ever get to hear that stupid first name?” Doc asks, sucking on the glass rim of the whiskey bottle in this way that makes you feel short of breath. You plunge under pool water, letting it capsize over your head before you resurface, gasping. 

“Nah, I don’t think so, not unless it’s, like, in exchange for another secret,” you half-joke, thinking about all the shit you don’t know about Doc, all the shit you _wish_ you knew, his racing past, his past with _men,_ which he has selectively and deliberately barred you from. “If you have anything juicy to share, I’m here...to listen kindly, as your friend.” 

“I don't have any secrets, kid,” he grumbles, pressing up against the side of the pool, tilting back to gaze at the inky blue-black overhead. “None that you don’t already know...and you know more than anyone else in town knows, anyway.” 

You furrow your brow. “I don’t mean this in a shitty way, but, like, you being gay isn't as much of a secret as you seem to think it is,” you tell him, thinking of _Mater,_ who’s both wise and oblivious and somehow saw it way before you did. “Just fyi.” 

“Oh, I know,” he says with half his mouth twisted up into a sad smile, flicking water at you gently, like you’re fucking demisable. “I don't think it’s a _real secret,_ kid, it’s one of those things everyone knows but no one talks about. Like every movie star in the ‘50s, how they were were all fucking each other, but no one _broadcast it?_ That's Radiator Springs...folks _know,_ it’s just not talked about.”

 _“_ What’s the _point,_ then?” you have to ask, suddenly aware of the fact that you’re wearing underwear instead of swim trunks, everything so _visible,_ transparent here under the water. You tread water, trying to dissipate the tension you may or may not be imagining as you regard each other. “Of not talking about it, I mean? So many people in Radiator Springs are _gay,_ it seems...Luigi and Guido, Fillmore and Sarge, even though they’re weird and would, like, never admit it. Sally, even. She told me when we were together that she liked girls, even if she’s never dated one. Like, the whole _town._ No one would care."

“It’s not the caring,” he sighs, shoulders drawing in tightly before falling away. “We don’t fear each other’s judgment, kid. I don't know how to explain it to you, but we all know, all of us. We nod at each other in the street, and those nods say it all. But actually _talking about it_ , well, that’s a different story. Not because of acceptance or anything like that, but because of experience. We’ve all lived it, lived it hard, fought for it, for ourselves, for our right to exist, and we just want to be neighbors now, without sharing...the pain, I guess.” 

“I just...Guido lives in _crop tops,”_ you remind him, heart in your throat at the idea of this secret society of Radiator Springs gays, all nonverbally communicating with each other, leaving out the ugly, the hard to categorize parts. The fact that there might be other factors, guys just like you, who fit into this dynamic _without_ being gay. Instead of trying to figure out why you feel hurt and left out, you shake your head, swim up to the bottle, and refill your drink generously. “I can’t imagine him _judging_ you or Sarge or whoever else.” 

“You’re not listening, kid, it’s not about that,” he explains, carding a hand through his hair. “It’s more…we all have our own shit to deal with, shit from the army or from Italy or from Long Island or, in my case, from _racing._ And we get it, but we don’t need to _talk_ about it because it’s so different. Plus, I’m _older_ than Guido and Sally and Fillmore, I lived through the ‘80s. It’s hard to talk about, and you just wouldn’t understand,” 

“What do you _mean_ , the ‘80s?” you snap, head cocked and jaw set because you hate being treated like a kid when you _know_ you’re not. He's deliberately keeping shit from you, and it _hurts._ He’s your best friend, you love him more than anything, you should _know_ what all this means, you should be able to _decode_ him. 

_“AIDS,_ HIV,” he says pointblank, taking a heavy swig, one so deep that you count multiple _mississippi’s_ while his head is tilted back. When he sets it down again, his hand trembles, and you notice every tick of it, heart pounding in your throat with something like regret. “See, if you were out and about, fuckin’ around at that time, you were either really, really lucky, or you died. Simple as that. So those of us who survived…there’s a guilt, a loneliness, and that’s how it is, how it’ll always be. Maybe we don't lay it all out for this generation because we _know_ about it, but kids like you…fuck. They _pry,”_ he grimaces, shaking his head, twisting his mouth up under this mustache, making you breathless. “Are you happy?” 

You’re not, you aren’t happy at all. You want to reach inside his chest and cradle the thud of his heart in your palms, slow it enough to read it like Braille, understand it with your fingers. You want to apologize, quietly and softly against his ear so that none of this dirty Florida air contaminates the purity of it. Too bad everything is fast, everything is dizzy, and you can only meet him in the dark, sordid places he drags you to. “My real name is _Montgomery,”_ you confess, nothing left to give to this terrible, gaping void he's just revealed but the one thing he asked for. “But my dad and everyone else, they called me Monty. And I hated both names, so I ditched ‘em and came up with a new one.” 

You’re not expecting him to laugh because your heart feels cracked and broken and throbbing from this conversation, and you just _confessed_ as if he was a priest and you were at church. But he laughs all the same, low and muffled behind his fist, eyes shut tight. You‘re _again_ struck with the impression that he _knows_ something you don’t, that he’s always a step ahead of you, so you bite the inside of your cheek and grind out, _“What’s_ so funny?” like he’d actually _tell_ you instead of letting you flounder just out of reach, locked out of things you _might_ understand if he thought you were worth trying to explain them to. 

“M’sorry,” he chuckles, wiping under his eyes with his thumbs, the shape of his mouth decidedly forming a frown. “That wasn’t a proper response to someone your age. It’s just...it’s not a stupid name to me, that’s all. It’s a nice name.” 

“Doc,” you whine, splashing at him, chest tight as you watch him lazily block the spray with his forearm. “You’re doing that _thing_ you do, like _,_ when you _know_ something but you won’t tell me what because you think m’too young. But I wanna _know,_ tell me, don't make me _google_ it later.” 

He looks away and then looks back, sighing. 

“One of the best actors from my time was named Montgomery and went by Monty,” he says, like it helps _at all,_ like it clarifies a single fucking thing. You must look so dissatisfied and frustrated with this answer that he caves and humors you because his eyes get softer, bluer, like they’re reflecting the color of the pool. “He almost died crashing a car outside Elizabeth Taylor’s house, but he didn’t. It almost killed his career, too, but it _didn’t_ ,” he explains, eyes fixed on his hands as he picks at his nails, refusing to meet your eyes. “He was real talented…a real talented guy. And gay. No one talked about it, but he was,” he adds, like it’s _not_ the most important part of this exchange, like it doesn’t shed light on the rest of it. “I thought he was real handsome when I was a kid.” 

You think of this gay man crashing, of Doc totaling the Hornet. How some folks are let back into the worlds they carve space in and others aren’t. _I had a lot left in me,_ he once told you, and your heart aches with something like guilt. Maybe you’d know what it was, exactly, if you weren’t so drunk, so unraveled. “M’sorry,” you whisper because you don’t know what _else_ to say, how to make this better. 

“For what?” he asks, cocking his head and looking at you like you’re crazy for thinking it’s worth apologizing for, having the same name as some actor whose crash didn’t end him, some actor Doc thought was handsome. 

“I dunno,” you say, shaking your head, littering your own shoulders in drops from your wet hair. You’re _cold_ suddenly, shivering in the night even if your gut is burning up from the liquor you downed too quickly. “For never, like, being what you _need,_ I guess.” 

His eyes widen for a moment, the blue of them so suddenly dark and stained with hurt in this way that you rarely see because it’s so _hard_ to wound Doc that it only happens when you mean to do it the _least._ Not so unravelable, maybe, because here you are, doing the thing you feel sorry for, falling into every sinkhole. He recovers, though, gaze hard again, so much so that you worry you imagined the sting in the first place. “I wouldn’t be so sure, kid,” he says, throwing back another mouthful straight from the bottle. “That you aren’t what I need, I mean.” 

And you don’t know how to process that, so you just drink more, float out into the pool, and continue to feel guilty while your mind is a mess of retirement homes, stars, palm fronds, secrets, and crashes. The fatal kind, the not-so-fatal kind, the kind that leaves scar tissue or a fake name, to keep the needles out. 

Doc sits on the edge and watches you with a strange, frustrating half-smile on his face. You’re not sure what the other half is, but maybe the chlorine will bleach it to nothingness, so it doesn’t matter. 

—-

In two days, the full crew will be here. Guido and Luigi and the rest of them, so many pairs of wide eyes, high and buzzing on the spectacle of it all. In some ways, you want them here sooner so that you don’t have to _think_ about the ways in which an audience changes how Lightning interacts with you. In other ways, you want _this_ —the oppressive humidity and the way it makes him look at you, hazy-drunk and narrowed down like you’re all that matters—to last forever.

You don’t often worry if this is anything more than it seems. It’s just so _improbable_ that it would be anyway. The conceited delusions of an old, half-crazy man, wishful thinking, intentional self-sabotage. _Of course_ Lightning McQueen doesn’t feel for you as you do for him, _of course_ this is, at best, confusion coupled with his vanity made swamp-sticky and muddled by the Florida heat. 

He’s so _much,_ though, and it’s dreadfully easy to imagine that it’s coming from somewhere else, to write a certain sort of longing into existence out of asphalt burns and idle touches and long, lingering looks like you’re a puzzle he wants to figure out. Particularly when no one else is here but the two of you, like twin yolks in an over-fertilized egg. 

He _touches_ you so much, and it’s something you can’t ignore. His hands, endless and perpetual, finding and spreading wide over your arm or shoulder or lower back even when you’re trying _hard_ to escape the burning scald of him, to get your head straight so that you can stop wanting (imagining) impossible things. But _still_ he always finds you. After practice laps at the track, stumbling out of the roll-cage with his blond hair especially dark with sweat, matted down in some places and rucked up in others as he slings his arm around your waist and leans in tight, crowding you even though it’s _well_ over triple digits, asking what he can do better, his grin bright and barbed and dangerous.

In the hotel gym early in the morning, when he makes you leave the comfort of your perch by the weight machines to hold his shoes down while he does crunches, talking to you all the while, breath coffee-bitter and boy-sweet, something you’d spend hours licking up and inhaling if this were anything more than what it is: a kid sucking up to impress his mentor, woking hard to win a race you already _know_ he'll win. 

In the grimy dive bar down the street from the hotel after a few drinks, mouth sloppy-wet against your ear, stubble scraping your temple as he leans in too close and asks you if you want another, the thud of his heartbeat insistent and unsteady against your outer arm, your ribcage, whatever part of you he’s using to chase his balance. 

And always, in the crystal-blue pool after it all, his skin and gold hair illuminated as he floats, eyes fixed on the big black sky above you as he _asks_ things he must _know_ you can’t answer straight. 

The questions, somehow, seem more invasive than the touching. 

Maybe because they’re so _intentional,_ whereas you can chalk the touch up to something idle, accidental, subconscious. He might not _realize_ how close he’s leaning into your space, how good his breath smells, how smooth-warm the skin of his bicep is dimpled under the terrified, frantic clutch of your hand as you try desperately to keep him at arm’s distance. The things he’s _saying,_ though, are not accidents. They always happen at the bar or at the pool, both of which have become strange, liminal confessional spaces over the course of this trip. The bar is loud and bustling enough that anything coming out of him will disappear into the beer-slick muffle, and the pool is so quiet and isolated at night that _no_ one can hear you, not unless they scaled a fence or planted a bug under the lounger you leave your towels on. Both spaces provide for an at least _theoretical_ loneliness, and maybe that’s why so many things come out in them, cushioned in water, in whiskey, blood diluted to an anemic pink instead of red. 

“Luigi and Guido…how long have they been together? Have you ever seen them, like, kiss?” he asks, waist-deep in the hot tub, chest flushed pink from the water in this awful way that makes you marvel at how _easy_ it would be to mark him up. 

“No idea of the specifics, but a long time,” you answer, riding the space between lying about them and leaking too much information, a lie but not quite. The jets are bubbling up to your neck, and you can’t stand the way Lightning McQueen stares at your chest hair slick against your body, as if he’s curious about how it might feel under his palm, so you look out over the concrete instead, lip in your teeth before adding, “And, no, not once, now that I think about it...doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.” 

“Of _course_ it happens, I don’t _doubt_ it happens,” he very-nearly snaps, twisting around so that you're forced to see the lovely ladder of muscle climbing up either side of his spine as he reaches for his water bottle. “Just wondering if you’d ever _seen.”_

 _“_ I don't need to see to know,” you explain, even though you’re well aware that you don't _owe_ him an explanation, that it’s not _on you_ to take this boy’s hand and lead him through the things he doesn’t understand. At the same time, you’re stupidly, blindly driven to touch him, even if it’s his sweaty palm, on a tour through the things he’s fetishistically curious about. “I know. They know that I know. Hell, even Mater knows, apparently, if you actually listened for once.” 

He flattens his mouth out, cards a frustrated hand through his hair, and refuses to take your bait. “All this _knowing,”_ he mumbles, eyes blue and watery and _sad,_ even, _left out._ You want to reach across the water and cup his cheeks, draw him close to your heart so that he can steady himself by its beat, but you _know_ you’ll only ever get to touch him like that in fantasy, and you _know_ your heart is beating too erratically for anyone to steady himself by, anyway. All this knowing. “M’sorry,” he says then, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb, water bubbling against his pale, narrow, kissable chest. “It’s weird, not knowing everything. To admit it. I feel so…like, _behind,_ a lot of the time, like there's a whole world happening while I’m sitting in the dark, being an idiot.” 

“Kid,” you say gently, cocking your head while he stares at the bubbles roiling around you. “You’re not an idiot,” you decide to tell him since he’s not responding to any of your sarcasm tonight. Sometimes he wants to be serious, and it always throws you for a loop because you _rely_ on the deflection tactic of giving him a hard time instead of choosing to press inward. You’ll do that alone, rip yourself apart when there’s no one there to witness it. But he doesn't get to see that. 

“Maybe not,” he replies, and you watch, your stomach in inexplicable knots. It’s hard, loving him the way you do. It makes you compelled to overlook and even forgive _structural_ misgivings, the way that he’s stunted simply because of who he is, where he grew up. “Still,” he says, tilting back, the line of his throat exposed to the night. “M’nosy, I wanna _know.”_

 _No, you don’t, not really,_ you think, trying to forget about his curiosity, the ways in which you could cater to it, quench it. That feeling lasts as long as it takes for him to bring it all up again, this time in a crowded room, perhaps so crowded that he feels like it’s just the two of you, the din and the sticky carpet under your shoes muffling everything beyond recognition. “When was...the last time?” is what he asks you, and you have no fucking _idea_ what he means, he speaks in a different language, he forges roads you only dream of _and_ in fire, the path blazing up a mountain that you can only stare at from the base of it, wondering why you were never brave enough to scale something so high. 

“What are you getting at?” you ask him, one hand on his lower back, steadying him as he stumbles to the bar. You’d end him right here and now, close out the tab and march him back to the hotel, but he so _actively_ outclasses his competition in this race that you’re not even worried about it. It’s a good feeling, that you can let McQueen get a little drunk and messy because even hungover, reflexes dulled, he’d win for you, leave them all in the dust. “Not making any sense.” 

“I mean for you. And a guy...when was the last time? Miami…it’s, like, the south, which sucks, but it’s also sort of a gay city, right? I could, we could...find someone for you, I mean,” he gracelessly explains, and your stomach coils up tight and defensive like it always does at this suggestion, jaw tight, gut hardened like a fist.

“ _No,”_ you tell him firmly, hand tight on his elbow before you release it, palm burning. _It’s been forever, I’ll die this way, and that’s fine,_ you want to say, but it’s not the truth. The truth is even less honorable, but you will never know how to talk to Lightning McQueen about craigslist, about public parks, about the yellow pages and the words you learn to recognize in order to find what you’re looking for. “I don’t need that,” is what you end up telling him, and that’s probably a lie, too. 

_“_ Jesus, Doc, yes you do, everyone does! And c’mon you’re...you’re _hot,”_ he says, gesturing, eyes hazy, and you want to _pin him,_ push him up against the bar and fit your hand over his stupid, lovely mouth. He can’t say shit like that, can’t call you hot in public and expect the both of you to survive. He’s gonna light this place on fire, and you’re gonna go down in the flames. “You shouldn’t act like you're dead when you're not,” he ends it with, throwing back the remnants of his drink, a whiskey ginger with so much ice melted into it that everything is mostly translucent.

“S’not your place,” you tell him, taking the empty glass from his fingers, skin brushing in so many places as you do it. “To tell _me_ what looks dead.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, laying a land on your stomach, making the flesh jump under the heat of his palm. “I just want you to be _happy,_ Doc, that’s all. _”_

You’re deaf for a moment, your heart stops, and so does the rest of the world along with it. 

_“_ You don't know what’d make me happy, son,” you remind him once you get your breath back, hands shaking as you close out the tab and leave enough cash on the receipt to tip for the last few rounds of drinks. “There are so many things you don’t know.” 

He slouches against you on the walk home and flops back onto _your_ bed in the room that you’re sharing once you make it to the hotel, unbuttoning his jeans as he spreads out. “Hey,” he murmurs, shoving a hand past his waistband, touching himself casually, eyes fixed on you between moments of intermittent wandering. “You wanna watch?”

It feels like all the air leaves the room, like there’s a fire somewhere, suffocating you. 

And you _do_ want to watch _,_ of course you do. You _alway_ swant to see him stripped down, his pretty skin sweat-dewy in a glittering, perfect sheen. You want to see the parts of him that you’re not allowed to taste even though you _long_ to. But you _also_ know what's good for you, what will hurt, and tonight is not a night that you can be reminded of all the things you’ve been denied. So you shake your head, wetting a washcloth in the sink before you dab your face clean with it, half-watching him from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” you advise. “Put it away.” 

He pouts but leaves his jeans unbuckled and a full inch of his sweet strawberry blond pubic hair visible. “But you haven’t…in so long, you said. Live a little.” 

“You think seeing a straight kid jack off in my bed is _living?”_ you spit out so fiercely that it stings even _you,_ forces you to recoil from him, stalking around the perimeter of the room like your heart might break if you get too close. “ _An elevated sense of importance_ is what I think they call it, the fancy psychology folk.” 

He fists the hem of his jeans, gaze still unfocused as it _tries_ to study you. He smells like chlorine and booze, and together those things make you dizzy, and you can tell that he’s not sure _why_ this is happening, why you’re so angry. If that’s even what you are. It’s hard, really, even for you, to pinpoint where the yawning ache in your chest is coming from, why it _hurts so badly._ “M’hard, though...getting there, anyway.” 

“Hold onto it, then,” you shrug, as if you’re not _dying_ to trace the outline of him with your eyes, as if you’re not suffering through waves of what feels like grief, maybe. 

He’s _awful,_ the way he chubs up so easily under your gaze, his length getting thick and juicy as he pushes the front of his briefs out and you get to _imagine_ (but nothing else) how good it would feel to work your tongue around it, to hold him in your fist and suck whatever was exposed, like candy, to cover him in spit. You _know,_ now, with an awful and powerful certainty, that you could make him come _so good_ , that you’d change his _life._ In some ways, it makes it harder and harder to feel satisfied with only watching. “Wait until you win... _then_ you can show me.” 

It’s a joke, mostly, as if you’d never _actually_ tell Lightning McQueen when it was okay to jack off or not, but he doesn’t _act_ like its a joke. He whimpers, squeezes his hand between his thighs. “Fuck, yeah, okay,” he whines, rubbing himself through denim. “I win and then I get to? You’ll watch?” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, gritting your teeth in self-defense before reaching down to grab his forearms, hauling him up and over to the next bed, where he bounces lightly as he collapses, eyes shut tight and therefore unreadable. “I’ll only watch if you win that race for me.” 

It feels wild as it comes out, beyond your control, like a fever dream. Still, he nods, palms up his bobbing throat, and gets under the covers without another word, like he’s on a mission. You feel crazy for a long time, smelling chlorine and booze on your pillowcase from him, wondering how the fuck you ended up here, telling him when to touch it, pretending that it doesn’t hurt so badly that it nearly knocks you dead when he corners you in a bar, lips soft on your throat, asking you why it’s been so fucking _long_ since you got to do more than look. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO MUCH, so brace yourselves. When I started writing this story, a scene in this chapter was sort of the seed/impetus for the whole thing. You'll know what it is when you get to it. Thank you to everyone whose reading, and sorry for the upcoming angst after this chapter. Love you all!

It’s hot, hot beyond all _reason,_ and there’s something about the heavy-wet crush of it against your skin all the time that makes you feel like you’re going fucking insane _._ It reminds you unpleasantly of the way it would get hot in Mississippi, those Junes you spent skipping school before you dropped out, scaling fences to go smoke alone in the skeletons of the new apartment complexes they were building outside Biloxi. You’d lie on the saw-dusty concrete before the construction workers got there, taking advantage of the shade, the quiet, the way you could forget how lonely you were because you were breaking rules by hopping the chainlink, and the solitary thrill of rule breaking always won out over other feelings. You remember being perpetually sweaty and sunburned for the duration of your Mississippi summers, the metal seatbelt in your car blistering, too hot to touch, the air too thick to comfortably breathe.

And, fuck, it’s hot in Radiator Springs, too, but it’s that _dry_ desert heat, the sort that scorches the inside of your lungs and chaps your face and makes you feel like you might catch fire. Still, there are breezes, there’s a movement to the air that makes it all bearable. It’s never _truly_ suffocating in the desert, so it’s been a long time since you felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

But this Florida heat, _fuck._ Every inhalation sticks in your throat and chokes you, makes you feel frantic and claustrophobic, like the whole world’s closing in with every heartbeat. It’s _suffocating,_ especially while you’re driving, since behind the wheel of a NASCAR model car is _already_ one of the most powerfully _hot_ places you can be. You keep imagining yourself passing out during the race, and the thought makes you breathe erratically during practice, sucking in lungfuls of humid, gasoline-tasting air so fast that it just makes you dizzier. 

“Lightning,” Doc tells you gently over the headset, his voice, as always, like this gravely island in the middle of a raging sea that you can claw your way up, latch onto, find your bearings. “You keep dropping speed for no reason, almost like you’re tired. Not just round the banking but all over.” 

“I _know,_ fuck, I know,” you grumble, gunning it again, wheel tight in your gloves as you climb back up to your intended speed. “I just...I can’t fucking _breathe_ in this heat.” 

Doc, who never coddles you, who _always_ calls you out on your bullshit, coughs right into the headset, making you cringe. “You say that like you’ve never raced in the south before.” 

“S’been a minute, a few months,” you remind him, eyes watering yet fixed ahead to the next curve in the track. “Radiator Springs fucked up my lungs, feels like m’inhaling _soup_ right now or something.” 

“Steady in and out, same as always,” Doc advises calmly, and really, he’s probably the only fucking person in the whole goddamned world who has this _effect_ on you, like his voice, the way he says things soft-rough and forever lacking urgency neutralizes your anxiety _immediately._ You didn’t even _need_ to consciously change your breathing because he just…did it for you. 

“Yeah, okay, I might need to be reminded of that during the race,” you admit, and he laughs, static crackling over the headset. 

“You’re gonna win that race, kid. S’in the bag, we’re just going through the motions.” 

And the thing is, whenever he says something like that, you _believe_ it, not in the wild, hopeful, overconfident way you used to do as a rookie, but in this _knowing_ way, solid and steady and…calm, somehow, like untroubled water. 

You think of that water and beat your last practice time by four whole miles. 

After the fact, you take a cold shower and rinse the sheen of sweat off your arms, which are looking especially freckly these days from sun exposure, the usually gold hair on them bleached an almost translucent white-blond. You’re just cleaning yourself enough so that you don’t bring any filth to the pool, rubbing the dirt collected in the ditches of your elbows out with complimentary hotel soap, rinsing the salt from your hair so that it’s not crusted into whorls anymore. 

You want to _live_ in this pool as long as you're stuck here in Miami, the rest of the city is insufferable compared to its green-blue placidity, the calm where you can drift around and get tipsy while Doc leans against the side and makes sure you don’t drown. It feels cool, easy, _safe,_ somewhere to bring the wild thrum of your fever down so you don't do anything fucking _stupid._

The thing is, you don’t feel just hot or just crazy. You feel hot-crazy, this uniquely wild and very dangerous state of being where nothing matters and your skin is on fire and your cock is half-hard and your mind is hazy and there’s no one there to witness it except _Doc,_ who already likes to watch you get fucked up and lose control. You feel like it’s inevitable, somehow, that you’ll cross a line, at the same time you don’t even know _which lines,_ if there _are_ lines, and what it might _mean_ for you to be toeing them or considering their impermanence at all. 

Then there’s the issue of Doc holding out on you, and that’s making it fucking worse.

There are these _moments_ when you realize how little power you have in this arrangement, even though you're _supposed_ to be the one with goods you can offer or withhold from him. But that’s not how it plays out. You _want_ to call the shots, but you cede to him every time, your resolve crumbling at his _voice,_ the certainty of it, the way rules sound so much _better_ and easier to follow and simply absolute when he’s saying them. You _know_ that nothing concrete is keeping you from just forgetting what he demanded and jacking off in the shower before you hit the pool, but then you remember _win that race for me,_ and you end up stopping yourself, making the water cold and digging your nails into your own arms because you _know_ you’ll feel dumb for not being able to wait when it’s always so much _better_ under his gaze, under his direction. You are your _best self_ in every way when he’s urging you on from the sidelines, and you won't disappoint him, even if it’s over something stupid and insane like _masturbation._

So you wait and you wait, and you feel yourself getting hotter by the minute, curling closer to some incendiary core, where you’ll catch fire, spin out. 

Unless, of course, you're neck-deep in the hotel pool, drifting from the deep end to the shallows, where you left your cocktail. Something fancy with not enough alcohol in it, blue with a toothpick-speared pineapple resting against the rim. Your tongue is stained from it, and you hope that Doc notices, gives up his game, and remembers how _lonely_ it must be on his gravel island, how _good_ it might feel to see your sweat-slick hand working yourself over, your head thrown back and gasping. He wants it, probably. You feel like he always does. Or maybe that’s just _you._ It’s hard to parse it out or remember, really, when it’s this hot, and the universe feels like it’s melting into itself, like all the sugar has turned into caramel, and you’re _stuck_ in places you never noticed before. 

“My arms are fucking sore,” you gripe, extending them in front of you, watching pool water capsize over your wrists, your hands distorting ever so slightly in the shimmery teal. “And this water isn't cold enough to really _reduce_ inflammation or anything.” 

Doc, who isn’t drinking something blue because he’s dignified enough to not be seduced by fancy-sounding gimmick cocktails, sips his whiskey. “We’ll get some ice back in the room and stick it in the sink. You can soak.” 

“Fuck that,” you hiss, sliding the pineapple off the toothpick and eating it. It hardly tastes like anything, but you keep chewing, not wanting to be caught wasting something you paid more than you should have for. “I hate the ice.” 

“I know you do,” he says gently, and you catch sight of yourself in the reflective lenses of his aviators, your body looking too-pale and too-red at the same time, sunburn positively _glowing._ It’s weird how you don't care anymore than you’re not as objectively attractive as you used to be two or three years ago. You remember, ever so briefly, what it felt like back before you moved to Radiator Springs and would spend your practice periods before races schmoozing brands and relentlessly flirting with girls at track bars and roof-top pools. It feels so foreign and dirty to recall that you’re almost _glad_ you look like shit, just another youngish NASCAR racer with his crew chief, not some desperate rookie riding his fifteen minutes out in smoke, trying to land as many brand endorsements and one-night stands as possible. It feels uncomfortable and gross to remember how sad you were back then under the layers of bravado, so you push it away, chew the pineapple rind, and tear your eyes away from his glasses. “It’s good for you, though,” he adds. 

“Well, _you’re_ a doctor. Any suggestions for something I could do that _doesn’t_ involve sticking myself in frigid water unit I cry?” you ask, pushing off the side of the pool with your legs to join him, holding your drink up and swimming haphazardly with one arm, trying not to spill the now-watery blue slush. “Gimme some of that whiskey, my drink isn’t even a drink.” 

He hands you his glass, and you press your mouth to the wet mark his lips left along the edge, lining things up, licking his whiskey-spit off the glass before you take a prudent sip. You can feel him watching you, and your stomach drops, gets too warm like it always does when you’re not sure what he’s thinking. “Everything I know hurts,” he tells you then, taking his glass back. “You won’t like any of it.” 

“What, like, massage stuff, physical therapy stuff? I’ll take that over _ice,_ old man...ice hurts, _and_ it’s cold. The other stuff just hurts, and I can take straight up pain,” you explain, holding your arms out expectantly. 

He studies you, but from behind the lenses of his glasses so that you can’t tell if it’s exasperation or amusement making the corner of his mouth tense and flicker, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. You think about reaching over and plucking the glasses right off his face so you can see the blue of his irises again, but before you do it, he holds out a palm, the back of his hand just skimming the water between you. “Alright then, tough guy. Let’s see it.” 

You start with the right arm since it’s the worst. Maybe because it’s dominant, you always clutch the wheel a little harder with this one, lock up the elbow even though you know you’re not supposed to. “The muscle along the outside hurts, right here,” you say, pointing, drawing your finger up the pale, freckled plane of your forearm. 

He touches you, thumbing along the path you just traced, mouth flattening out under his silver mustache. “Any numbness or tingling?” 

“Yeah, in my fingers, sometimes, especially when I make a fist or flex backward,” you tell him, reaching for the whiskey with your left hand, pressing the glass up against your cheek because you suddenly feel so fucking _hot_ again, even though the sun has dropped past it’s highest point, and the temperature’s only gonna get cooler from here on out as dusk approaches. 

“Hmmm,” he says, squeezing your wrist, encircling it entirely in his hand because he’s got broad palms and long fingers and shit like that is easy for him. “Sounds like nerve impingement. We can do a pin and stretch, but trust me, you're gonna hate it.” 

“Not as much as I hate ice _or_ my arms aching. Bring it on,” you shoot back, bracing yourself. 

“Fine.” He feels you out carefully, gaze dropped until he fixates on the proper spot and digs in hard, pinching the problem muscle down firmly under his thumb. “Okay...now flex your wrist, fingers out like you’re holding a paintbrush.” 

You do it, and he maintains the pressure until the swollen cord of muscle shifts under it agonizingly slowly. You’re left breathless, but he nods, shifting down a millimeter or so. “Okay, good. Again.” 

“Ow,” you complain, heart pounding. It’s awful, but at the same time you feel incredibly contained and cared for, a concentrated version of the satisfaction you feel _anytime_ Doc is there looking out for you, dragging you through tough or ugly places so that you can come out the other side _better. “_ Am I doing it right?” 

“Hmm, good enough. That paintbrush motion is what you're looking for…smooth and steady so we really stretch the muscle. Don’t rush it, do a long, careful stroke.” 

“Didn’t know you knew so much about painting,” you grind out through a series of winces. “A man of many mysteries.” 

He releases your arm and motions for the other one, and _in spite_ of all that pain, it _does_ feel a little looser and more fluid now, the muscles warmer, less locked up. “I don’t,” he mutters. “It’s just a doctor-thing we say.” He huffs out a thoughtful breath, finding the spot on this side, hands gentle as they shift up your skin, rubbing the hair against the grain. It’s weird, you _know_ he’s about to dig in and hurt you, but you just...you _like_ this, the way he touches you, the certainty and steadiness and how it feels encompassing, somehow, makes it so that you can’t think of a single other thing. 

“Well, I like it when you doctor me...like being your patient, even if it hurts,” you observe, taking a long swig of his whiskey, flexing your wrist with each new awful point he finds and holds down on your arm. He doesn't say anything to you after that, just slides his grip down to your wrist and holds it there for a second while you stand with both your feet notched into the space between his slightly spread legs underwater, wondering if he’s about to ask you something or else finally answer a question _you_ asked in the last few days since he keeps trying to dodge them, hoping you’ll forget. You wait, breath held. 

The pool isn’t even empty this time, a few couples are hanging out on the loungers or in the hot tub, chattering, all drinking blue drinks and laughing in this way that sounds so distant, maybe because there’s a sudden thud of blood in your ears that’s deafening you, and it’s hard to make out anything distinct. “You know what goes real good with pin-and-stretch exercises?” he asks, squeezing your wrist gently, right over your too-quick pulse. It’s hot, it’s _so hot_ that you wonder how the fuck anyone here breathes if they’re not waist-deep in water, like you are now, _still_ struggling to expand your lungs all the way. 

“What?” you ask, wondering if he’s about to pull you in, make you stumble so that you pitch forward into his chest. You wonder if you would mind and realize, as you do time and time again, that you wouldn’t. 

“Ice,” he says, dropping your wrist so easily, the skin feeling blistered as you plunge your hand back into the water. “I’ll make you a bath of it in the sink so you can soak it before you sleep.” 

“Fuck you,” you quip then, finishing his whiskey, setting the glass down on the side of the pool, and making sure you splash him as you swim away. You keep feeling _cheated,_ _tricked_ into transparency, but you don’t know why, showing Doc something only he can see so that you’re stuck here, bleeding from a wound you know exists but are too scared to look at. He so easily fits his fingertips inside it, stitches it up, and all the while, you don’t even _know_ what it is. What’s hurting. 

Maybe if it wasn’t so fucking _ungodly hot,_ you’d be able to figure out what the fuck is happening, but all you can think of is sweat and fire and how hard it is to _breathe_ unless your crew chief is telling you how to do it. 

—-

Night falls, sticky and humid like a layer of chemical mosquito repellant over your skin, sunscreen and citronella stink everywhere until it’s indistinguishable from the sweet smell of the drink mixers at the bar. The whole pit crew is here now, and you’re drunk, drunker than you’ve been in awhile, but it's not _your_ fucking fault that McQueen is positively insufferable, flushed and wild like that first time you saw him in your courtroom and thought you might have a heart attack if he came any closer.

There’s no way to escape, to dampen, to hide: you want him so fucking badly that you feel like it’s eating you from the inside out.

You thought that having the rest of them here would soothe the burn, but it _doesn’t._ He’s just as insistent, just as _close._ He might touch you less, but he makes _twice_ as much hot, lingering eye contact, the blue edged out to a thin ring, like he’s silently reminding you _we can’t do that, what we usually do, but you know what’ll happen later, when everyone’s gone and I win._ And _that,_ honestly, is _so_ much worse. That he _doesn’t_ touch you the same way in front of your friends, but that he silently _promises_ you he will behind closed doors. 

He’s too young, probably, to know what this does to you, to understand all that it’s tied up in. It reminds you too much of a life you left behind. Of the men who hated you in public, spat on the Hornet’s fender before a race and told everyone who would listen that you were a queer, but who were happy to let you drop to your knees and suck them off after sundown in supply closets, in bathroom stalls, in _cars._ Always in cars, the whole of your sexual experience limited to the squeak of backseat leather, the smell of gas station air freshener. Windows streaked in condensation, tinted so nothing that happened behind them could be seen. 

Maybe it’s the memory, too sharp and painful as it bites into the places he’s made soft by living with you, looking up to you, but this dichotomy stings in a way that you can’t tolerate without alcohol, so you drink and drink. You drink until the usual dull-hot buzz around your skull turns into genuine dizziness, you drink until you can’t see straight for a minute after you turn your head, waiting for the world to adjust, to come back into focus. You want desperately to drink yourself out of this situation, into some other parallel universe, but no matter how hard you try, you remain stuck in this Miami dive bar, watching Lightning McQueen’s hair get dark with sweat as he bustles around, ordering drinks for everyone, curling his arm around various men’s shoulders but never your own. He’s not drinking much tonight because he’s racing tomorrow, but he’s stumbling all the same, everywhere at once, greeting fans, shaking hands, teasing Fillmore, singing along to Elvis on the radio. 

You watch and throw back shot after shot until you’re afraid to say anything lest it reveal how _compromised_ you are. 

Luigi is right beside you, going on and on about some van of tourists who came to Radiator Springs in your absence, blew through town and spent more money than you all have seen in years. You’re trying hard to be present, to listen, but Lightning’s _laugh_ is everywhere, echoing between the sticky walls, and you don’t know how to ignore him. You don't know how to do anything but swallow and trip after things you’re not allowed to have, desperate like they might feel sorry for you and cave if you’re persistent enough. 

You wake up with a terrible headache the next morning, so early that the sunlight hasn’t yet begun to sneak its pearlescent fingers in through the cracks in the blinds and stain bright across the carpet. It’s gray outside, gray and clean, and meanwhile your body feels wrecked with a force beyond your will, an achey sickness between your lungs, weighing you down like lead.

Of course it’s best to pretend that nothing happened. McQueen doesn’t know how drunk you were last night, how much he _got_ to you, so you drink a massive iced coffee from the lobby cafe and finish an entire bottle of water while remaining stubbornly behind your sunglasses, doing everything in your power to restore your usual sense of propriety and order. Lightning doesn’t seem to notice as he stretches his arms out in the car on the way to the track, pops his knuckles about ten hundred times so that you’re queasy as you park out back in the garage closest to the pit. 

It’s early enough that you’re one of the first crews there, thank god, so McQueen has time to lock himself up inside the trailer alone while the rest of you mill about, tending to the car, the reporters, the lineup. You sit with your headset on your lap and your jacket zipped up to your chin, shivering even though it’s well over eighty degrees already. “Doc,” Luigi calls, bustling in, handing you the Gatorade you requested because you’ll keep sucking down liquids until one of them makes you feel better. “Feeling okay this morning? Need Guido to get you some Advil? Because—”

“Hey, hey, m’okay,” you assure him, clapping down hard on his shoulder, squeezing. There's a dark sadness to his eyes when they sweep over you, something like pity, and it’s in moments like these when you realize with a sick, stark sort of clarity the extent to which Luigi _knows._ Knows it all, knows your loneliness, knows the way you feel about road-wrecking racers who busted up your town and never left . You want to be angry about it, but you can’t because underneath it all, you’re aware that he _understands._ That it could be him in your place if he hadn’t found Guido, sitting lonely atop his tire empire, longing for boys less than half his age because living like this stunts you sometimes, keeps you repeating the shit that mauled you to ruins when you were twenty. You shake your head at him and smile a watery smile. “You’re a lucky man, Luigi, you know that, right?” 

He nods to you, continuing to polish the already very clean wrench he’s holding in his hand with a stained microfiber rag. “Oh, yes,” he agrees, gaze sweeping the pavement. “I know...you could be, too, maybe,” he adds with a shrug, gesturing with his wrench. “If you let yourself be.” 

“I let myself have about what I deserve,” you tell him, sympathy dried up here in this moment because you’re sick of anyone telling you that you have something left to look forward to, like _this_ isn’t the highlight of your life, your best and truest destiny. Sitting in Lightning McQueen’s pit, telling him what to do, knowing that at the end of this race, come two hundred laps, he’ll unzip his pants and show you how hard it makes him to do a good job behind the wheel. You don't need more than that. It doesn't matter that you _want_ more than that. Want is conceited and irrelevant.

This set up, it’s not _bad_. It’s better than actual racing was, better than anything else you've got, and who the fuck is McQueen, or _Luigi, even,_ to say that an old man like you _deserves_ anything more? Who are _you_ to think you might be special enough to be _truly_ happy and not just alive? Maybe crashing the Hornet was supposed to kill you, and everything that’s ever happened after the fact is luck and happenstance. Imagining there’s some sweet hereafter beyond the smell of gas and burnt rubber, beyond the look of Lightning McQueen’s wrist trapped under the waistband of his jeans…it’s unrealistic, but it’s also _vain._ You’re not a vain man. Not anymore, anyway, not since you called yourself the _Fabulous_ Hudson Hornet before you’d even won a race worth earning yourself that title. Crashing ripped your vanity to shreds, leaving nothing but resigned gratitude and old scars in its wake. 

That was a long time ago, though. You’re old now and not a fool anymore; as good as you get is calling the shots from the sidelines, fisting yourself to finish in the toilet bowl as you think of how Lightning Mcqueen’s sweat might taste, bitter and sharp under your tongue. 

You polish off the Gatorade, but it only makes you feel sicker. It’s not until the first stage of the race is over and he starts on his fiftieth lap, effortlessly breaking into the top four and cruising there until you tell him to claim his lead, that you start to feel solid and gain an appetite again. Guido brings you a bagel and another coffee, and by the time the second stage rolls in, you’re mostly back to normal, or at least Luigi has stopped shooting you patronizing, concerned looks over the rim of his water bottle like he’s _your_ Italian grandpa and you’ve let him down. “Kid, how are you doing?” you check in, since you haven’t heard from Lightning in a minute. “Your speed’s been dropping and climbing within a mile margin. Doesn’t matter much, you’re still leading the guy behind you by a good distance, but I’ll let you know if he creeps up.”

“Ah, it’s the...the _heat_ thing again,” he says, voice clipped. “M’trying to not let it get to me, but it’s so fucking humid in here. I can just, like, _smell_ myself.” 

“Hey, s’okay if you let it get to you, remember? Just ask for help...I can’t change the weather, but I can talk you down,” you remind him, watching the 95 slip up the side banking, missing an opportunity to sneak between the two cars ahead and take the lead. You’re not worried, he’ll get it eventually, he always _does. “_ You just passed up a window, did you see that?” 

“Yeah, fuck, I did,” he snaps. “I’m sweating so much, I feel, I dunno...slippery.” 

You laugh, the rasp of it mostly likely coming out as static over his headset, which he always gripes at you about. “Remember what I said the other day, steady in, steady out, same as always. You just gotta focus and drive.” You hear him inhale in response, his breath slow and careful, and it draws an involuntary shiver up your spine. “That’s it, kid. Pick’em off. You got this.” 

He wins by a substantial margin, just like you knew he would, but you get the feeling he might not have known it with the same fierce certainty as you did, though, because when he rolls into the pit after his smoke show, before the slew of interviews and coverage that will inevitably follow, he throws his arms around your waist, crushing you into him, and you can feel his body shaking. “You did it, kid. Big surprise,” you joke, inhaling from him because you can’t help it, don’t want to, not when he’s inescapable and all over you, and you know this is all you’re ever gonna get. 

He smells the way he always does after a race, _overwhelmingly_ strong and musky, because there’s something particularly potent about his stress-sweat, his _fear_ -sweat. It gets trapped under his uniform and comes off in waves after he unzips it, and it’s something you live for, a reminder that you’re deluded for thinking an old, pathetic dog deserves anything beyond this: Lightning McQueen’s fear-sweat, his trembling hands on either side of your throat as he peels back and looks to the sky, eyes wet. “I thought I was gonna pass out in there for a minute, saw stars and everything. It was weird. But you...yeah, you, er, thanks. Always.” 

“We need to get you an inhaler, then,” you say gruffly, letting him go because the smell of him is making your mouth water, courting this morning’s dizziness back. The heat of the sun beats down on the two of you like a fever, and he stumbles as he lets go, but he’s _still_ too close, smothering and impossible. This is a moment that you’d normally make fun of him for, but there are things that drive you crazy, and they’re converging here, under the scorch of the sky. McQueen’s smile, his sweat, the sharp terrible tang of it so fierce that you can taste as you inhale. The adrenaline from the win, the haze of smoke, and, of course, the sun, ever-watching, burning you up to nothingness beneath, like an ant under the glare of a magnifying glass. 

McQueen bites his lip, cards a gloved hand through his hair, and hooks one of his fingers through the belt loop of your jumpsuit. “C’mon,” he says, tugging. “Let’s get the press over with so we can get back to the fucking _hotel,_ ”and you think he’s about to add, _so I can shower and change and we can head to the bar, go out with the rest of the crew._ But that’s not what he does. His breath comes sudden and shallow, and his grip tightens reflexively, his eyes so suddenly dark and hazy and hungry in that way they getwhen he wants to show you, when he wants you to _see. “_ I wanna celebrate,” he mumbles, and there’s no mistaking what he’s talking about, what the last few days and their triple-digit burns have been whittling down to. 

Your stomach turns, and you pry his grip off you because there are things that drive you crazy, and they’re converging here, under the scorch of the sky. 

—-

It takes forever to get away from the track, longer than you anticipated, longer than you _want_ it to. Your cock is waiting and has been for _three whole days,_ ever since Doc told you the dynamic could resume when and _only when_ you won. 

Well, you fucking won. You’re mired in everything that happens _after_ a win, though, the interviews and the paid fan pictures and the press conferences and bottle after bottle of champagne popped in your honor, cascading in gold fizz all over your hands. Your face and chest are sticky from it when you finally escape, so you peel your undershirt off and try to dab yourself dry as the crew packs up, stomach knotted at the way you can feel Doc’s blue eyes sizzling into your bare back. 

Finally, fucking _finally,_ it’s all over, you’re free to return to the hotel with your trophy, and you’re surprised that you’ve managed to last this long. You consider just fisting down the front of your track pants and having at it while you ride shotgun in Doc’s rental car, but you know he’ll just scold you, and _plus,_ he can’t _watch_ the way that you need him to, and that’s the whole _point,_ why you’ve been waiting, denying yourself. So you turn up the radio and slouch against the window, filthy with sweat and champagne and the general grit that comes along with being on or around a track all day, and you wait a little longer.

Doc’s very quiet, so much so that you nod off, and before you know it, you’re back at the hotel after he shakes you awake. 

It’s late enough that the bar _and_ pool are closed, which is fine because you’ve only been occupying those spaces with such routine fervency to distract yourself so that you aren’t tempted to jack off. But that’s over now, you’re _allowed_ to, so the second Doc keys you both into the room, you cut a desperate path straight to the shower, heart already thudding in your throat in anticipation, cock chubbing up in your briefs. “I’ll be right out,” you tell him, voice coming out tight, and the expression he shoots to you as you say it both titillates and terrifies you, sends knives to twist in your gut. He’s steely and unreadable under a veneer of amusement, like he doesn’t need this half as badly as you do, and maybe on a different day or in a different moment, you’d find that embarrassing, even _insulting,_ but you’re so turned on right now, it just further excites you, pushes you deeper into the fold of hunger. 

You don’t have words to say why, but there’s something thrilling about the way it feels to lose yourself a little. To fall, sunken beneath the surface of some vast, hot wave, desire keeping you afloat but washing away every formerly logical or essential thought you had before this, creating a blank slate, a new landscape, the high tide making every crevice and sharp edge uniform in its wetness.

Your shower is quick and not very thorough, but at least you’re not _sticky_ anymore as you stumble out, tucking a towel around your waist without even bothering to dry off. 

Doc is on his bed when you emerge, reading glasses glinting in the overhead light as he reads one of his books, crew chief’s jumpsuit replaced by sweats and one of his well-worn, standard white v-necks. He doesn't look up at you, so you have a few seconds of uninterrupted time during which you can actually look at _him_ , something that always seems too intense to do once you get going, when you’re mostly naked and he’s _not._ So you let your eyes wander, climb up his body, tall and broad. The easy bend of his good leg, the other held stiffly and gingerly at the proper angle, how it always is when he lies on his back. The still-black hair visible on his chest though the pilling cotton of his shirt, run through with silver, thinned out save for the valley between his pectorals, where you’re pretty sure you could make a shallow fist if you tried. 

His eyes are trained ahead of him, fixed on whatever he’s supposedly reading. You’re pretty sure that he’s just fucking with you, pretending he doesn’t see you, pretending he doesn't care if he upholds his end of the bargain. Though, come to think of it, the terms were never really _fair._ You win, you show him your cock, you come when he says it’s okay to. It’s all on you, every second of it, but it’s _fine_ because there’s not anything you _want_ in return, you think. Except simply to be _witnessed,_ to be found desirable, because for some reason, nothing in the whole of your lonely history has felt so good and real and _healing_. 

You lie down next to him on your side, one of your arms tucked under your head to prop it, the other flipping open your towel so that you can start palming your cock, which is already leaking messily at the tip, even though you aren’t even fully hard yet. “Hey,” you say, voice mortifyingly low, thick. “I won.”

“Did you shower properly? Clean under your arms and everything? Because you still stink, kid,” he says in response, without looking up. “Can smell you from over here.” 

For some reason, that makes your stomach twist up, like your body doesn't know the difference between humiliation and arousal anymore. “Well, _sorry,_ I sort of hurried becauseI thought you might be anxious to—”

He sets his book down on the bedside table with a thump, followed by his reading glasses. “Lift your arms above your head, lie on your back,” he orders, cutting you off, and, _fuck,_ your cock flexes so hard at that, twitching in your palm and dripping down onto your stomach before you let it go, doing as he says without a second thought. “Your sweat smells different when you race, especially if you’re worried,” he tells you then, like this is something he’s _observed,_ like he keeps track of the way your smell changes.

You're about to offer a delirious, incredulous apology when he leans close, as close as he can without just _burying_ his face in the golden thatch of hair in your pit, and sucks in a ragged inhalation. You can feel his labored breath, the scrape of his stubble against your inner bicep as he sways before pitching back, mouth open, panting. “Fuck,” you murmur, vision giving way to static around the edges, just like it was behind the wheel when you couldn’t breathe right. “You...do you _like_ that?” 

He shakes his head no, but he’s dipping close again to inhale with his eyes closed, one hand fisting in the sheets and the other braced somewhere near yours on the headboard. “It drives me crazy, kid,” he says sort of brokenly then, exhale huffing out into your underarm and making you shiver and yelp, cock so fucking wet that strings of precum connect the crown to your abdominals. “You can touch it,” he murmurs, gaze fixed hungrily to the slick on your stomach. “Feel what a mess you’ve made.” 

You push your fingers through it before curling them around your cock, at long last giving into the pressure, the contact. Just like you knew it would, your hand feels better moving under his command, under his _gaze._ And maybe it's been so long that you’ve lost your mind and gone a little crazy, but you have the wild, stupid thought that _his_ hand would feel even _better on you._ It’s bigger, warmer, he drives a car better than you ever could, bet he could make a cock come just as good. “Jesus,” you gasp out on an exhale, astounded by how much you’re trembling, how _hazy_ reality feels, like the inch or so of distortion above hot pavement baking under the Florida sun. “Why do you like how I smell?” you ask, needing to know. You fist up your cock, cup the crown there against your palm while more precum sluices out obscenely. 

“Because,” he growls, eyes blown out with pupil, throat rippling as he swallows over and over again. You watch the pulse thud there under his jaw and wonder what it would feel like beneath your fingers. “It’s you, just you. Nothing else to cover it up.” 

And that’s a shitty reason, you think. You’re uninteresting, not worth someone paying attention to the ways in which you’re flawed, human, but still, the way he says it has you squirming against the sheets, tugging yourself faster. Without realizing it, you drop the one arm you had raised to palm over your chest, but before you get there, he stops you. 

_Touches_ you. 

Lays his palm flat, the contact zinging up into your shoulder like a burn as he pins your elbow back up above your head like a crucifixion. Your eyes meet his, wildly, and you’re terrified that he’s gonna let go because of the no-touching rule you laid down too long ago, but there must be something in the messy heat of your gaze that communicates to him what you want. He leaves his hand there, stretching your tricep up, keeping you splayed so that he can inhale from you in greedy lungfuls.

So much is tearing through your mind, all of it half-formed and fear-messy and too-fast. That you _love_ seeing him get greedy, that this might be the first time he’s visibly cracked composure while you touch yourself, and it’s got you _ruined,_ needy for more. That you’re _fine_ with him touching you, there on your arm, but if he touched you _more,_ you sure as hell wouldn't say no. You think of him sliding his grip down, rubbing into your underarm before pressing his face there like he clearly wants to. You think of him mauling those hot-rough palms down your heaving chest, your stomach, pushing your hands away and curling around your cock instead, and, _god,_ just _imagining_ it makes you ten times hotter, more raw and broken open. 

“M’close, m’already close,” you whine, squeezing your cock at the base as you leak all over the soft hair under your navel, the place where he’s staring. 

“Then roll over,” he says, voice dark and possessive in this way that makes you lose your fucking breath, gasping as you do as he says without pausing to consider _why_ he wants you there. “God,” he breathes then, shifting closer so that he can get a good look at your ass, and, _oh,_ that’s why he wants you this way. It should terrify you, and it _does,_ but it’s also maddeningly hot that he’s just asking for what he wants, telling you how to give it to him. “You ever touched yourself here?” he asks quietly, raising his hand over you like he’s just feeling the heat coming off your skin in waves before dropping it back between the tense liminal space between your bodies again, gripping the bedspread presumably to keep from gripping _you._

_It’s okay, you can,_ you think desperately, brain reduced to static and heat and base, animal longing. _I’d let you do whatever the fuck you wanted right now._ It’s an absolutely insane thought, it scares you even as it races boundlessly across your mind, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. It doesn’t matter, this isn't the real you anyway. This is the adrenaline-sick wreck born from three days of denial and insufferable heat and claustrophobic proximity and winning for your old man. It’s not your fault, so you can let it run until it runs out of fuel. “No,” you answer, swallowing thickly, voice trembling as you reach around and smooth a palm experimentally over your own ass cheek, pale in a soft dusting of hair. “Tell me what to do.” 

His breath catches, his eyes close, and then he relaxes into instruction and authority, like he always does. It’s comforting, and you like it, hole flexing with involuntary curiosity in a way that you’ve either never felt or never noticed feeling before. “You start slow,” he tells you, “Just…feel it. Pull yourself apart a little.” 

“So you can see?” you ask, voice nothing more than the grind of water against stone, of breath. 

He makes a choked sound, then props himself up more, peering at you like you’re gorgeous, like you’re revealing a secret. “Yeah...fuck, _so_ pretty,” he murmurs, and it’s _hot,_ makes you rut again the bed, humping it like an animal. You never think about this part of your body, about it _existing,_ let alone someone finding it _attractive._ For him, you rub your fingers over the tight furl of muscle experimentally, and they catch, something flickers. It’s weird and _good,_ so good, maybe because he’s watching, and everything feels good in the warm cast of his yearning blue eyes. 

“Like this?” 

“However you want, whatever feels good,” he tells you then, rubbing his face, the stubble on his jaw, like he’s got to do something with his hands lest he touch his cock. Your gaze flickers down between his thighs out of curiosity, and sureenough _,_ he’s tenting them obviously, so much so that you can very nearly see the shape of the head through the fabric. 

“You’re big,” you marvel, rubbing your asshole with your index and middle fingers, working the pucker in exploratory circles as you stare at Doc, drinking him in, feeling feverish with the heady rush of sensation crashing over your body like the tide. You thought you'd _hate_ this, always assumed that only gay guys liked having their ass played with, that it didn't feel _objectively_ good, but it _does._ Its nervy and intimate and dirty, dirty, _so fucking dirty,_ to rub right into the reluctant give of your hole, like a mouth that might open, might suck. “Your cock, I mean...s’huge. How come you never show me?” 

He coughs, briefly pressing his face into the pillow like he cannot fucking believe that you’d ask such a question. “I didn't know you wanted to see,” he answers. 

“Well, I do,” you insist, wondering if this is crossing a line, changing the rules, but at the same time, not even caring. Everything feels blurry and humid and suffocating, and your want has become a pure, undiluted thing free of thought or rationality. 

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. You can tell there’s no fighting him on this, so it saves you the discomfort of having to figure out what the fuck it _means_ that you want to see Doc naked so badly that the mere _idea_ has you fucking against the sheets. Your wrist has started to ache, so you pause, prying yourself open again so that he can stare into you, making you hot and shaky all over, coated in a new layer of fresh sweat. “How’s that feeling?” 

“Weird, but sort of...I dunno, like, I can’t imagine anything ever _fitting_ up there,” you explain, pushing against your core reflexively, like you’re testing for resistance. “How does that even _happen.”_

He shakes his head, staring at your split ass where your fingers are pushing and rubbing aimlessly. You wonder how it looks to him, how someone could _possibly_ find it appealing, but you know with _certainty_ that he does. It makes you feel tremulous and overwhelmed, perhaps with power, but maybe with something else. “Can’t do it dry, you need to get yourself wet. Spit on your fingers.” 

You let go and bring your hand to your mouth, only to realize that you can _smell_ yourself on them, so sudden and sharp that it makes you stop because it’s all too much, too fast. Too filthy _._ “But they were just in my _ass,”_ you grimace _,_ stunned at the way he follows your fingers with his eyes, like _he_ wants to take them into his mouth and suck, whether or not they taste like you. Perhaps _because_ they taste like you. Your stomach lurches as you grind your cock into the sheets at the thought, the whole world feeling hazy and technicolor, like none of this matters and you have the freedom to follow it anywhere _. You can lick them, you can get them wet,_ you think, but his gaze shifts from your hand to the dip in your back, the deep, hungry slope

“Okay, hold yourself open for me,” he orders, and you do it, reaching back to pull one cheek away from the other so that your hole is winking, exposed to Doc, to the hotel room bearing dirty witness to all of this. “I won’t touch,” he promises, and you nod even though you'd _take_ it, soak it up. 

 

There’s a wet sound, a messy sound, and then something hot and thick-wet dripping down your crack to collect in the rim of your hole, and nothing, _nothing_ has ever felt so base, so filthy-hot, so _absolving._

_This is where I belong,_ you think, or at least the version of you that has been driven mad by waiting, burning, melting, bleaching in chlorine. 

 

“Fuck,” you grind out, shifting under the labored heat of his breath, “Did you, did you just spit on me?” 

“Try now, try and push inside,” he instructs, ignoring your question. “S’better, lubed up like this.” 

You reach back to find slickness and froth and heat, and, _yeah,_ sure, it’s easier to push past the tightness to feel inside when your fingers are wet with something. It’s Doc’s spit, _Doc’s spit,_ right there on your hole, helping your fingers nudge past some silent barrier and into the burn of your body. You’re clutching inside, a hot steel grip, but it’s also relenting, easier this way with him making you softer. You inevitably imagine his mouth, his _tongue_ as you push your knuckles deeper in a tide of saliva, and it makes you groan aloud, your eyes flutter shut. “Hurts, but s’good, really good.” 

“Yeah,” he tells you, nodding, face stricken like he’s awed by you. “The best sort of pain, isn't it?” 

“Mhmm,” you answer, wanting more of his spit, more wet, more heat. He’s lingering over you in this hungry, conflicted way, and you want to _crush_ the conflict to nothingness, to dust, replace it with ocean water, with pool water. The cool blue of chlorine. You want him to rush over you, to cover you so that you drown. “Much better wet like this,” you rasp, and he’d never know because you’re not using enough words, but you're _begging,_ to the best of your ability, for him to suck your fingers, for him to spit again where you’re dirtiest, where you smell the strongest (apparently a thing he _likes_ ) _. Please, please, please,_ you think in messy increments, hips pumping, seeking enough friction with the sheets that you might come.

_He spit on my hole, he spit right onto my asshole,_ you think on a wild, filthy loop until it's too much, and you’re losing yourself in his sheets, but even then, amid the rush, your gaze blanched in static, you're thinking of him. His mouth, his big cock that he won’t show you, the way his breath is coming out in terrified, uneven gasps. 

It shocks you, the way that your hole flutters and clenches involuntarily around your fingers as you fall apart in a mess of white ribbons all over Doc’s bed, and you cry out, a messy hybrid of pleasure, astonishment, and his name. You pulse and pulse, and it takes a long time before the muscle stops tensing around you, holding you inside. Slick with his spit, _his spit._

It’s only then, as you come down from the static haze, that you realize what’s happened. Somewhere, during the time it’s taken you to finger and hump yourself to orgasm all over his rumpled sheets, he’s gotten under the bedspread and started touching himself. 

It makes you dry-mouthed and shaky to think about Doc doing that, his big hand on his big cock, working the thick length in slow, steady strokes over the way you managed to get two fingers sunk past the first joint into your own asshole, if only because his spit, his _spit_ was right there on you. Thick and hot and probably salty, if you were to lick it up, suck on his tongue. Your spent but still mostly hard cock twitches as you reach for it, cloudy gaze trained on the way the sheets are moving around his fist. “Are you...are you gonna come because of me? Do you want to keep looking?” you ask, messily rolling further onto your side so that you can spread your tingling ass lewdly to his gaze. It burns, it heals, it _burns_. You wither under his sharp eyes, and your stomach gathers like a fist, cock flexing, reacting to this even though you can’t come again. 

“Yeah,” he moans, and, _god,_ that single syllable alone has you writhing in the mess of your own come, stomach dropping. “Just keep it...fuck, held _open_ like that, show me—” 

His eyes slide shut beneath fluttering lids as he comes, and you eat up every second of it. The snap of his spine, the careful flexing of his thighs, nothing but a ripple beneath the sheets as his hand moves too quickly to keep track of. _Please, please, please,_ you think as you watch him shudder and come apart, sweat beading on his temples. You’re not sure what it means that seeing such a thing makes you pray, but you do. You're praying hard. 

Even after you both come down, you’re playing with your hole. Gently, carefully, noncommittally, like he might come through and take over for you, save you from the humiliation of not quite knowing how to do this right or in a way that seems anything less than performative. “Fuck,” he sighs instead, rolling over and away from you, body nothing but a trembling dune of sand, wavering under the sun. “Fucking Christ.” 

You lie there beside him for a long time, wondering if he’ll come back, roll over to face you. Take your face in his hands and do what he will with your mouth. Fuck it, kiss it, strike it so it bleeds. You don't _care_ anymore, you’ll take whatever Doc has to give you, as long as he's here, he cares, he’s _looking_.

You just want him to look at you, but he won’t, and your eyes are getting heavy, your arms are so sore, your ass achey and damp and exposed, so you take your grief with you and get up, stumble to your own bed, and turn out the lights. You want to fall asleep instantly in the dark, but you're sober and all he’s done is spit on you, so it’s gonna take a lot longer than that: your own salivation in your own palm, to see if it’s as thick as his, as wet as his, as good and as hot and as unforgettable. 

Because these are things you won’t forget, not now, not ever. They’re etched into concrete, tire marks through wet cement, stars stacked against the roof of this hotel flickering and watching and reminding you that they’re eternal. You sink into them like a dead body as you remember thinking on a sick, helpless loop, _please, pease, please._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god this chapter is literally just RELENTLESS ANGST and realizations. Lightning is about to be #realizingthings. So much realizing. Also, so many tears??? I used to write a lot about men crying and then I had a creative writing teacher in high school with a lot of nerve and backwards Catholic ideas tell me it was "unrealistic" so fuck that, all my male characters cry. Anyway, sorry this chapter is a bummer! I'm gonna post a cute feel good Doc/McQueen one shot later today to soothe the sting. Love you all.

You’re not sleeping. You’re not sure if you’ll ever fucking sleep again, frankly, not with the shit that’s burnt into your brain, the terrible, lovely, sin-hot blister of it all, the best thing you’ve ever seen, the best thing you’ve ever done. Lying there in the dark a few feet away from you, stirring every once in a while in this way that makes you think he’s not sleeping, either. You keep replaying the pain and the glory of him, the way you couldn't look away, couldn't stop yourself from taking your cock in hand, like you swore you’d never do where he could see. He _wanted_ to see, though. _He wanted it._ In whatever strange, lukewarm, tangled up ways men like him want other men. Like they want a mirror, like they want approval. 

You shudder, rubbing your face into your pillow because you can still _smell_ him on it, the notes of fear giving way to arousal, then back to fear again. Over the pound of your heart you can hear his breath coming even but strained from across the room, like it might collapse into unsteadiness at any point and rip open into a gash that you could fit your fingers into, feel for a pulse. The smell of him is too good and too much, and his come is right there next to you on the bed, sticky and cooling, and you can smell _that,_ too, an organic, salty, half-baked smell, and, _fuck,_ he _left_ that here for you, you’re allowed to touch it, push your fingers through it and wish that you were touching him instead. He left it so it’s not his anymore, it’s yours. Or it should be. You don't know anything anymore, it’s hard to think when the sort of thing you never believed could happen _happened,_ the fiber of reality fraying under your fingers. 

Maybe he’s awake like you, but there’s a strange stillness laying over the space stretched between your beds, a blanket of snow. It feels uncrossable, barren, the sun’s anvil, so there you lie on opposite sides of the universe, perhaps pretending that the other doesn’t exist. 

The room is oppressively dark, and it makes you feel like you’ve died, like you can commit any terrible, filthy act here in the shadows and not even God will see you. Certainly not Lightning McQueen, who is worlds away. So you eat his come right up off the hotel bedspread like a depraved man, perhaps because you _are_ a depraved man, rutting your cock into the place his body once was, chasing the heat long since burned off as you lick up the remnants of him, bitter and sticky. 

_This is it, this is the end,_ you keep thinking, heart yawning like a wide open mouth in the center of your chest, finding the dredges of your hangover and replacing them with grief, with regret, with debasement. _We aren’t gonna survive this one_.You’re certain, after tonight, that you’re losing him in some real and permanent way. You could barely do what you were doing _before_ this, just watching him and telling him what to do. You _definitely_ can’t tolerate this new and terrifying iteration of it because this? This is _sex._ And he doesn't think it is. And that’s gonna fucking kill you. 

Lightning McQueen coming around his fingers in _your bed,_ while staring at _your cock,_ is sex. It’s a capsized boat crushed under a waterfall, a burning building, rafters blackened and ravaged by fire. It not the sort of thing you’re ever going to be able to rebuild from. The smell of his sweat and the taste of his come aren’t things you’re ever gonna forget.

They are _it,_ the end. 

Things you wanted but thought you could never have, gift-wrapped and dropped right in your lap, while he fell to his knees and _begged_ you to untie the ribbon. You can’t _stop_ here. You can’t endure him leaving, going back to Sally or finding a new girl and speeding off into that sunset while you get older and older, the cartilage burns out of your knees and the remaining black of your hair fades to silver, and you lower yourself into a grave with the bitter bite of him on your tongue, remembering the soft tilt of his wrist, the soft golden hair in the dark valley of his crack, the way he said your name wrapped up in a sob as he finished. You have to stop this _now,_ before you collect more miserable hollows to carve out in the dirt, more scars littered over your chest, like loving him is a car crash. 

You survived—this time. Nothing but scratches and a broken heart. But what happens _next_ time, when he’s too riled up to think straight and fucks with you like this? Fingers himself deeper while he talks about how big your cock is? Asks to _see_ it again? You’ll be driven closer and closer to a precipice, to losing control and spinning out, but you _know_ he doesn’t _actually_ want the force of all the water you hold back in your dam. He wants a thrill, he wants mutual masturbation, a circle jerk. The sort of shit men who think they’re straight can get away with while maintaining their self-concept. He doesn’t want you to fuck him. He _certainly_ doesn’t want you to be in love with him. 

If he finds that part out, he’s gone. You can imagine his hurt. His betrayed eyes, the way he’ll stumble, backtracking desperately, suddenly sick with pity and disgust. Even if he _does_ want to be fucked by a man in some authentic way under his layers and layers of self-denial, he doesn’t _want_ to want that. The desire either doesn’t exist, or he’s successfully blinded himself to it. And you _are_ your desire. You’re built of loving him, of wanting him, and these polarities cannot coexist without a bone fracturing somewhere. _Your_ bones, probably, because they’re already brittle with age. He’ll endure, he’ll move on, he’ll write fictions so that he can swallow this without having to acknowledge what it really means. You, on the other hand, will be reduced to a pile of blood-slicked white splinters and marrow. 

So the second you hear his exhalations _finally_ turn into real sleep breathing, you get your glasses and your phone out, toe on your shoes without socks, even though you _hate_ doing that, and let yourself out into the hallway and downstairs to the hotel lobby. 

It’s very quiet and very empty, though, and judging by the cool blue light in the sky, dawn is only just around the corner. You sit on one of the couches adjacent to the bar, which of course is closed, dark and eerie with all its sinister bottles. It’s an ugly couch, red and orange striped in this way that violently clashes with the carpet, and it’s uncomfortably hard, but at least it overlooks the pool, which is still and very pale green in the darkness, like something frozen. You think of him because you always do, he has inserted himself into every landmark like a ghost. You imagine the waves licking at his pale lovely sides, his laughing mouth, his tongue stained blue, his nipples drawn tight from the cold. The way he touches you like he doesn’t think _at all_ about what it does to you until he _does,_ and then it’s all he’s thinking about, coy and teasing and flirty, like this is a game. 

He thinks he could be any young thing. Any hot arrogant racer, a pinup from a copy of _Honcho_. He thinks you look at him the way you do because he’s attractive in some broad, indistinct, unspecific way. He doesn't _know_ that he’s your heart, that it’s not the fact that he’s _handsome_ that makes your mouth fill with spit and your pulse speed up and catch in your throat. That makes you want to hold him, trace the bones of his face, kiss the hollow of his throat where there’s a particularly wide, dark freckle. That makes you wish you were thirty years younger and a woman so that he might think of you as more than he does. That breaks you, steals your sleep, makes you drink. It’s because you _love_ him. He’s your heart, and you’re a fool, and he thinks he can hold out on you and eventually leave, and you’ll somehow _live_ through it, just replace him with some hot, _new_ pool boy to ogle. He has _no idea,_ and that’s why he’s so careless. 

You need space. You need to pull away, rip off the bandage before it grows to your skin, sticks with a layer of dried blood and lymph and ends up ripping you open. So you feed a dollar bill into one of the desktop computers in the lobby and look up flights to North Carolina. 

Maybe you can find something at the abandoned dirt track in Thomasville, some splints and glue to hold what’s left of you together, some cold black water to chase the placid green of the pool and all its memories away. You don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, you just know that whatever it is, you’re not gonna find it anywhere near Lightning McQueen. 

The sun rises, crawling cold and pale yellow up the horizon and filtering in through the lobby windows. It’s your cue to leave, to head back up to that infernal room to wake him. You have a flight to catch, and it leaves two hours earlier than the one back to Radiator Springs. 

His arm is warm beneath your palm as you gently shake him awake, and you’re forced to think back to the way you’d cracked and touched him, pushed his arm over his head so that you could fill your lungs with the spice and salt and terror of his sweat. As soon as he stirs, you let him go, wiping your fingers on your sweats because it seems unfair that you should get to do it again after all that’s happened, especially when he’s half-asleep and you aren’t. It’s an unbalanced power dynamic, and you’re sick of those. “Shit,” he groans, rubbing his face into the pillow. “Did I sleep through the alarm?” 

“No,” you tell him, settling back into the darkness, staring. It’s harder now, to remember why you need to run when he's right in front of you, hair soft and sleep-matted, eyes drowsy. You love him so much, and you just want to crowd him up against the headboard, tell him you’re so _sorry_ for messing this whole thing up, for not being able to uphold your clinical doctor’s perspective amid the storm. “I got a different flight, actually. S’earlier.” 

“A different flight…Doc, why?” he asks, suddenly awake, blue eyes wet and glistening in the narrow bar of light filtering in under the door. “Is everything alright?” 

And, fuck, _no,_ no, it’s not. Nothing is alright. You're fraying, you’re coming apart in strings, but you can’t tell him, not right now, not when there's so much _more_ that threatens to seep out. “I decided I need to take a trip back to Thomasville is all. Catch up with some folks. Clear my head.” 

And he _could_ play coy, he could back his way out of this and find a way to sway you. But he doesn’t, he just frowns and looks up, lips so pretty and pink, flattened into a line as he purses them defensively before saying, “God, this is _my_ fault, isn't it? Please, I don’t want you to go, I don’t—”

“S’not your fault, son,” you say, a word that’s fraught with meaning, with tension, with pain. You _mean it,_ though. He’s yours, he’s _from_ you in a way that you’ll never be able to fathom, as if he were your own blood, your mirror image. He's other things, too, but they can’t matter right now. You need to step back and breathe. “It’s just…it’s a lot. A lot of things, building up and gathering here, stacking up against me. And I don't want to bring that back to my town.” 

He studies you, there in the bed, shirtless so his collar bones stand out, and you have to work to ignore them. “Okay,” he says eventually, nodding. “Just...tell me you’ll come back, when you’re ready. Back to Radiator Springs. To the house.” 

“It’s _my_ house,” you tell him, brow furrowed. “Where else would I go?” 

“I don't know,” he says then, shaking his head. “Thomasville, apparently.” 

“Get your clothes on,” is what comes out as a response, ripped and dry. You think you’re hurting him, that he doesn't understand, but _of course_ he doesn’t. That’s the whole mess of the thing in the first place. “I don’t wanna be late.” 

McQueen shakes his head, but he does as he’s told, and your heart breaks hard and over and over again as he dresses, pulls on his boots, refusing to look at you like he knows it will bring the tide. 

—-

You're convinced he won’t actually leave you to board a flight alone. That this is some maneuver to teach you a hard lesson, and he’ll turn around at the last minute with that look on his face, eyes twinkling, and make a fool of you. Just like at Wiley’s Butte, when he _knew_ you’d spin out in the dirt. You just have to wait, to be humiliated, to learn. 

But that never happens. He just pats your lower back gently without meeting your eyes and says, “See you around, kid,” like this is the end of some miserable fucking movie, and boards his plane. There’s no lesson, no grand plan, nothing but confusion and betrayal and guilt and disbelief warring in your chest, so much so that you can’t do anything but stand there in the terminal, holding your bags. 

Everything crumbles around you. You’re stuck _alone_ at Miami International, with Doc on a plane headed back to North Carolina, a place he hasn’t visited in _fifty years._ You don't know what’s waiting for him or what he wants, all you know is that the whole city seems drab as he flies out of it in a steel capsule. The green and blue carpet fades, the ‘80s orange pattern on the wallpaper dulls, the palms cease their endless, celebratory sway and pause for a moment, like they're in mourning. 

It sure feels like _you_ are in mourning. 

Every second that he's further away from you makes your heart ache more acutely, your stomach twist and curl like you’re sick. You don’t know what's going on in Doc’s head after last night, but you don’t want to be _away from him_ for it. You want him right here, next to you, so if you choose to tell him all the ways in which you're scared or confused about it all, he can lean in and listen and your words won't hit the air and become contaminated. 

You need Doc to tell you what the fuck is going on. None of this makes sense. Not last night, not this morning. The sharp ache of desire should have faded when you came, when you went to sleep, but it _hasn’t_. You _still_ want him as close as fucking possible, and it's driving you _crazy_ that he’s not here, that the seat next to you on the plane is empty, and he's heading somewhere _else._ You think of his steady hands, his half-smile edging onto his lips, and your whole body lurches in the narrow economy row. A flight attendant comes, and you order one drink and then another. They help take the edge off whatever you’re feeling, but still, it would be better against his shoulder, with his disapproving expression reflected back to you in the airplane window. 

But he's not here, he’s flying to Thomasville while you fly back to the house _you_ have a key to in Radiator Springs, heart aching and aching. 

Things happen mechanically before you land, as you land. When you disembark, there are people to greet you with their printed-out, handheld cards saying _McQueen and Crew,_ and you have to tell them that you’re traveling alone, since Guido and Luigi decided to stay in Miami for a few days on vacation, and Doc, of course, _left you._

They don't apologize or ask you if you’re okay or act like this is in any way something worth noting. You’re clearly expected to just pile into the backseat of the shuttle and head back to Radiator Springs, empty-handed save for the trophy you won. 

It’s a long drive, and the backseat of these top-heavy airport shuttles always makes you car sick, so you try your damnedest not to obsessively check your phone to see if Doc’s texted you to let you know he got to Thomasville safely. You anxiously tap your thigh with your fingers, at first in time to the gravelly mariachi music coming in through the speakers but then to nothing at all once the driver shuts off the music entirely, most likely in an attempt to dissuade you.

Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, but you’re not gonna touch it, so you gaze out the window decidedly, glass tinted so deeply that you forget it’s the middle of the day for a moment, that the desert is golden beyond the darkness. This lasts for about twenty minutes before you decide that you can’t stand it anymore, so with a hot and sudden prickle crawling from the base of your spine up to your skull like you’re doing something shameful, you hammer out, _text me when you get where you’re going, old man. I know its only been a few hours but I miss you. Need to know you’re alright._

It’s not until you’ve made it into town and collapsed miserably onto his couch after heating up a frozen burrito in the microwave that you couldn't actually bring yourself to eat that you get a response: _all ok kid._

The finality of it hits you right in the gut. You _know_ this the last text you’re gonna get from him before he decides to come back to Radiator Springs, that this isn't the sort of message you’re meant to reply to. It’s clear he doesn’t want to hear from you, and you’ll have to sit with that. You take a deep breath, pour yourself some whiskey, and flip the TV on, even though you’re not watching it, gaze too busy sweeping around this house that feels empty, even though you’re sitting right in it. 

You fall asleep on the couch, cheek pressed to the embroidered grandpa cushion Doc uses for his lower back. You have creases from it on your face when you wake up dizzy and with a headache, alone in this way that feels bone-deep. For a delirious second, you think he’s gonna come out of the kitchen and give you a hard time for crashing here instead of in your bed, but then you remember that he’s in North Carolina, and the sick ache settles back into your solar plexus like a fever. 

Days pass, strange and long and lingering, but there are no more texts. You get groceries, you force yourself to shower, you think about lying down on his bed about six or seven hundred times before you finally do it, wrapped in a towel, your hair wet and your eyes puffy, too numb to even hate yourself properly for caving into an urge so weird. 

You don't know what you’re feeling, _if_ you're feeling, or if you just felt so fucking much in the last forty-eight hours that your brain short-circuited and your heart cracked open, everything inside leaking out into your bloodstream and making you impossibly, irreparably _heavy_ inside. In Doc’s bedroom, you feel a little more grounded, lying there where he usually lies, taking in the view he sees when he’s about to fall asleep. For some reason, the wine-red Hot Wheels ‘52 Hornet sitting on his dresser gathering dust is the thing that finally makes you cry. 

It’s like a relic, like a secret. The sort of item that the right person finds and uses as a key to open up some dark closet full of skeletons and memories, but most folks would just pass over, mistake for a toy. You wonder how long he’s had this thing, if someone who actually knew about his past gave it to him as a well-intentioned but accidentally insensitive gift, or if he found it at some grocery checkout line in the ‘90s and bought it on a whim for himself, a reminder of what it felt like to crash. You want to pick it up and hold it in your palm, you want to curl your fingers around it, you want to sneak out to the garage and push your hands under the sheet draped over the _real_ Hornet and find its dents in the dark. 

But then you realize that you actually just want to touch Doc. That these small, distant reminders of him are stand-ins for the heat of his skin, steady and solid and as comforting as your own heartbeat. 

It occurs to you as your wet hair makes a mark on his pillow that you’re always fucking looking for excuses to touch him, to be close to him, that you _know_ it’s something you crave. You just didn’t realize how fucking _awful_ it would feel to _not_ have it, to be forced to wonder if you ever will again, or if the second he gets back here, he’s kicking you out to fend for yourself in the desert, wondering if the love you’ve been looking for your whole life was actually right here. A sun-bleached trading card in your teenaged pocket, a Hot Wheels car you’ll steal if he makes you leave. 

You want to touch him. You want him to touch you. Apparently, being robbed of it feels like death, and you're pretty sure you know what this means, but every potential solution you come up with is too scary to sit with for very long because then you’ll have to look at your _self_ instead of just lying here with your eyes wet and stinging and your throat tight, imagining what it’s like to fall asleep here every night, as he does. 

It’s easier to process this stuff if you imagine saying it to him. So there on his sheets, you take out your phone and start typing a text that you know you’ll never send. _I know you said it wasn’t my fault and maybe there’s other shit going on too. I get that. But can you at least tell me what I did wrong?_ You hit the backspace button carefully until every letter is gone, realizing with a sinking feeling in your gut that underneath it all, you _know_ what you did wrong. You made this thing with Doc _weird._

Without realizing it, you startedto _want_ it too much, want _him_ too much. And that’s not the way it was supposed to go. He didn't agree to your messy feelings _,_ your confusion, your slow, graceless realization that you want him in ways you’re too cowardly to even put a name to. He figured himself out a long time ago, you doubt he wants to watch someone forty years younger than him stumble in the same direction, let alone hold his hand, hold _him._ It’s not his job to help you come to terms with this, but you made it his job, anyway. 

The truth is that this whole thing started out as you getting off on him getting off on you, but it’s morphed into something so much messier. So fast and dirty and imperfect that you didn’t even _notice_ it happening. 

Somewhere between Radiator Springs and Miami, or perhaps between the second and third stage of the race, or maybe between the bar and the pool, your crossed wires crossed harder, twisted back and forth and knotted into something so thoroughly enmeshed and electric that you’ll never be able to untangle it, lest you singe your fingers. Because now you’re not just drawn in by the idea of him finding you attractive, you find _him_ attractive. 

You suck in a few ragged breaths and let realization sneak up on you, reveal itself in fractals. 

Doc makes your heart speed, your stomach plummet. Over the course of the last few months or maybe your lifetime, you've grown to become single-mindedly obsessed with him. Suddenly, all those love song and whatnot _finally_ make sense. 

The more you think about it and try the idea on in your mind, the less certain you are that this is a new development at all. It doesn’t feel like a shocking discovery, anyway. It feels like you’ve been digging for a long time, grit under your nails, the shape of a box caked in dirt slowly forming under your hands the more you shovel out. You’ve been aware of something there, soon to be uncovered, but you only _just_ unearthed it enough to crack the top open and look inside. It’s been buried all along, though, the way you feel about Doc: his picture in your pocket, his gaze on your skin, his voice the only thing that brings you back into your body when you're spiraling heavenward. You just couldn't see what all of that _meant_ because it was mired deep in the shit you’ve carried with you from Mississippi: shame, denial, self-loathing, fear. The firm, unwavering belief that because you liked fucking girls so much, there’s no chance in _hell_ you might fall in love with a man. 

_Jesus. I’m so sorry, Doc,_ you type out, eyes stinging as you chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes raw and metallic. _I’m so fucking sorry i made things so awkward between us, or if i made assumptions about what you were getting out of the whole arrangement. I was being really selfish._ Your fingers are sweaty on your touchscreen, so much so that it makes it hard to keep typing so you stop, letting your head loll back in the wet spot, heart pounding in your chest. Everything that’s happened the last few months looks different now that you’re examining it from this angle, and there’s a sickness creeping up in your chest, the swell of regret. It winds tendrils around your lungs before pulling tight, each inhalation a struggle. He’s not here to talk you down from it, so all you can do is breathe, or try to breathe, and think about all the ways in which you had every single piece in front of you to put this puzzle together, but you didn’t lift a finger to try. 

You’re not sure how long you lie there, but eventually the tight feeling fades, replaced with nothing but a _sad_ feeling, and you feel like you can move again. _I’m realizing a lot of stuff about myself,_ you type, heart climbing up into your throat as you pause, skin prickling against his sheets in a sudden layer of perspiration. _I’ve never been in love before this. I don’t know how to do it right._ You stare at the words, and it’s as if they stare back, growing blearier as your eyes get wet, and you blink and blink, but still they remain, a layer of dust on a model car, a hammered out fender on a real one, like scar tissue. The words _hurt_ to look at, the way all things utterly and essentially _true_ do. 

_I didn’t realize that’s what this was. I was stupid and just didn’t want to look close enough to figure it out. But it’s too late now and I’ve fucked it up and made a mess of things, like I made a mess of the road last year because apparently that’s what I do. make messes for you to clean up. and I'm so sorry. you’re my friend and my crew chief and the best person I know and I don’t want to lose you to thomasville or wherever else because I was too much of an idiot to know what i was feeling._ You stop typing, suddenly exhausted, wrung out in this way that leaves you shaky. You remember that you haven't eaten enough, that you’ve been drinking too much, that you’ve hardly left the house, and Mater keeps calling you, but you keep ignoring him. There’s a world outside these walls, outside this _bedroom,_ but you’re realizing how little you give a shit about it if Doc isn’t there to witness it with you. _Please come back, old man,_ you type, throat so thick that you can barely swallow. _I’ll be good this time. I’ll be whatever you need._

You sit up, head swimming. You swipe a mark through the layer of dust on the Hot Wheels Hornet as you wander back into the too-quiet hallway, leaving prints, proof you were there, even if you never get to be again. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll reunite them next chapter <3 In the meantime if you're sad check out the cute one shot I posted where they fuck in an RV!

The dirt track of your youth seems so much smaller than you remember it, the way things always do when you’ve run from them for fifty years. Oddly enough, it doesn't hurt you the way you thought it might to retrace old, familiar steps, your dress shoes looking so out of place on the weathered, sun-pale rafters of the bleachers as you gingerly climb them to get a good look from the top stand. 

It’s foggy and lonely, which isn’t at all how it used to be unless you showed up around dawn to get a leg up over the other guys. The old feeling of excitement still lingers in the air, and at least four times you imagine Lightning McQueen standing beside you, all wide-eyed and excited as he always is about stuff like this, begging you for stories. You push his image away violently every time it comes uninvited until you’re only imagining a shapeless frame next to you, someone to bear witness but coldly, silently. _This is where I used to race,_ you tell the shadow. _First place I figured out how to slide around the banking. First dirt track I ever loved. First set of bleachers I ever kissed a boy under. Shit. First place I ever kissed a boy._

The last part arrives unbidden, like a demon hitching a ride on a summoned spirit. You let it stay, though, because you’re no longer in the habit of recoiling from those long-dead memories, not since Lightning McQueen carved new wounds. The boys you kissed fifty, thirty, even _ten_ years ago seem like less traumatizing landmarks of your past in retrospect, now that your present is rich and white-hot and too bloody to touch without staining your hand. It seems stupid to feel hurt by that boy from ‘52 when Lightning McQueen pulled himself apart for you less than twenty-four hours ago, pushed your spit up inside his hole, and silently begged for your cock, like it’s something a boy like him can just _do_ and get away with. He touched himself like he _needed it b_ ecause he _does._ Stupid, filthy, _devastating_ boy. He needs to be fucked so badly, and he has _no goddamned idea._

There he is again. You push him away hard and think back to the scent of summer and that long-ago kiss. Just within in the last year, it’s somehow become something that doesn't gut you empty to think about. 

The boy’s name was Tommy Rodgerson. He was only three or four years older than you, but it felt like a lot back then; he was a mechanic, and he taught you much of what you know about cars, he always seemed more worldly than you, smarter. You used to walk over to his garage with fabricated questions just so you could see him with his shirt off or in a sweaty white wife-beater stained in engine grease if it wasn’t hot enough yet to justify stripping down to his jeans. At first you thought it was the sort of thing that always happened to you, when you admired some man from a distance until he caught you doing it, threatened to beat you for being a queer, and your shame and terror destroyed the attraction, making everything regarding sex or its potential short-lived, fleeting, ephemeral. 

But you were good-looking back then, too. You had black hair that you slicked back like Montgomery Clift, a strong jaw and a built chest, and there were times when you looked at Tommy, and Tommy looked back at you, times when the world arrested, just for a moment, so suddenly that you forgot to be scared because it felt like something more _important_ than fear, to stare at the sun, at the shimmer of sweat collected in the stubbly hollow of Tommy the mechanic’s throat. 

The kiss happened after you’d won a race and the whole town felt like it was yours, like you could do anything and they'd still want to carry you up on their shoulders and cheer your name. You were tipsy on bootleg liquor, everclear strong and bitter on your tongue as you both stumbled under the bleachers, the place where girls and boys always went to kiss after the races. You knew that, _he_ knew that, and still you just collapsed onto the dirt and talked for a few nervous hours before you finally got stupid and drunk enough to reach between his splayed thighs with a clumsy hand. 

It was all you knew, really, all you thought you could have. You were nineteen, and your only experiences with other boys had been at a wild, lawless summer camp in Poughkeepsie that you went to the June you turned twelve and a half, and the older boys made you and your cabinmates grab each other under the dock as some sort of initiation rite. You liked it too much, you and a few others, and sometimes at night you’d sneak out and swim to that spot like it held some special sort of magic that made it alright for this thing to happen here and only here, the water dark and so cold that it made you all shrink to where there was hardly anything to feel, just frantic giggling, breath on mouths, soft handfuls in ice water and the moon hanging low and yellow in the sky, reflecting in ribbons on the lake. 

As soon as you fit your palm around him, he shuddered, shoving his half-empty bottle into the dirt and reaching for your face, drawing you in. 

Then his stubble was scraping your jaw, his hot wet tongue was in your mouth, and you were gasping, terrified, the whole world opening itself up to you, the secret space beneath the dock blown wide to contain the universe and all of its stars. You didn't know this was _allowed,_ but now you wanted it badly. You licked back into him, chasing the bitter taste of the booze, hand faltering, which ended up being alright because he reached for his belt during your pause and undid it so you could get under it. 

You were too young and too drunk to remember the rest, who finished first or if you finished at all. You just remember heat, sweat, the hazy summer smell of dirt cooling after a day spent baking under the sun, cicadas chirruping around you like a hallelujah chorus. The sex bit of it didn't matter much; you’d tugged on boys until they came before, had the same done to you.You’d do it again, your whole past and future a scattered mess of lonely hand jobs in public bathrooms and in the backs of cars. But that was the first time a man ever took your face in his hands, felt the bones of your cheeks under his thumbs like you were Braille to read, and kissed you. It’s only happened a handful of times since, enough that you could count them on one hand and still have some fingers left to tuck into a hollow, somewhere. 

Tommy Rodgerson and you fooled around once more, only this time it was sober and during the daylight somewhere in his garage, and you got scared and shoved him off, left without saying goodbye or explaining yourself because it felt like the sunlight was gonna tell on the both of you. Some months after that, he got engaged to his girl and moved to St. Louis to be close to her family, and the last you heard, they had a couple of kids. 

And that's how a lot of those men you kissed or made come ended up. Married to a pretty girl with a family somewhere, their pasts smudged out under a sweep of charcoal, burnt to dust. You guess some men can just _do_ that but not you. You’d rather die alone hungry than choke some lie down day after day. You know your desire. You _are_ your desire. For boys like Tommy and Lightning McQueen, they can come out the other side of a fire choking on smoke, blistered, but not _burnt._ You, on the other hand, will suffocate in there, charred to a husk. 

You kick at the graying wood and step back down, thinking about how you _could_ visit the spot where Tommy left his glass bottle half-buried in the dirt to see if there are ancient shards or a hole to fill up, but you don’t think that’s the sort of healing you’re trying to do here in Thomasville. 

You’re not even convinced that you’re trying to heal at all. You might just be looking for old weapons to reopen old wounds so that the new ones don’t kill you. 

—-

It’s been four days since you left the house to do anything that wasn't absolutely necessary, and it’s starting to feel more like toxicity and less like self-care. But you have no motivation, your heart still hurts, and all you can think about is Doc, obsessively inventing elaborate narratives for whatever the fuck he’s doing in North Carolina. Visiting family you didn't know existed, sleeping in the same room he recovered from his crash in, thinking he’d get to go back to racing. Maybe he’s dealing with the will of some newly dead relative and grieving without telling you, without letting you _help_. Or maybe he's finding young men to fuck in Charlotte’s gay bars, even though you’re not even sure there _are_ gay bars in Charlotte. Or maybe he’s chasing down some long-lost love from his hometown, the one who got away, some other handsome seventy-something-year-old man who’s been waiting there for Doc to return and profess his love, save him from a broken heart. Your imaginings often devolve into him replacing you in some concrete and debilitating way, and every time you try to muster up happiness for him in these _stories_ that you’ve invented, it’s nearly impossible. You’re sick with jealousy, with missing him so badly that the ache feels _physical,_ like you’ve got the flu. 

You want to be happy for him. You want him to have a future, the sort he _deserves_. 

But now that you know how _you_ feel, you selfishly want that future to be with _you._ Loving him has become all you think about, the lens through which you’re finally _seeing_ yourself, clearly and for the first time, no longer distorted by an opaque layer of dust and fear accumulated from growing up in the bible belt, racing away from your own heart lest you’re forced to look at it too closely and see something you don't like. 

It’s funny that Doc leaving for Thomasville would be the thing that wiped the grit from the windshield away, that brought your whole past into stark relief. It just seems so _obvious_ now. Your fixation on him from day one, your powerful _need_ to impress him, the fact that he's the only crew chief who’s ever gotten you to listen. That you showed up on his doorstep the night Sally left you, and it didn't feel like your heart was broken, necessarily, but like you were finally following it home. 

Every moment since you _met_ Doc has been leading somewhat predictably to this realization, and now, as you look back on all the formerly mysterious or confusing moments where you couldn’t figure out why you didn’t _want_ to move out or date again, why you were content to sleep in his guest room save for the moments when you wished the bed was closer to his, everything finally makes fucking _sense._ It felt like falling in love because it _was_ falling in love. 

It’s an incredibly weird, surreal state to be living in. Sometimes you want to sob with relief at finally _knowing_ what was hidden in the mirror. The worst of it is over, you don’t have to hide from it anymore, you just have to come to terms with it. But other times you _hate_ it, feel sick and shaky and overwhelmed at the idea of reconciling something so huge, something that brings you _shame_ , even though you _know_ it shouldn’t, that being _gay_ , or whatever you are, is nothing to be ashamed of. You’re realizing there are deep-seated beliefs that you can’t shake, imbedded so deeply into your skin that you didn’t even know they were _there_ until now. They haunt you, creep up on you, keep you up at night, some sinister voice in your head telling you it’s okay for men to want each other, just as long as _you_ aren’t one of the men doing the wanting. 

In these moments, you want to go back to hiding because that’s so much _easier,_ not as lymph-messy, open, painful. You could justify how good it felt to know that Doc wanted to fuck you when you were chalking it up to your own arrogance coupled with open-mindedness. You could even _pat yourself on the back_ for being tolerant or something. It’s so much _harder_ to justify the reality, which is that it felt good to know that he wanted to fuck you _because you want him to fuck you._ The simplicity of that truth feels base and carnal and terrifying, and you're twenty-nine years old and thought sexuality crises only happened to teenagers, so on top of everything else, you also feel _mortifyingly_ young. 

There have been a few instances where you get so wound up and paralyzed with fear and incredulity that you decide you can’t do it. But just when you’re about to start jumping through hoops and writing up some insane loophole to erase it all, you think of Doc in Thomasville, chasing something that’s not you, _kissing some man that’s not you_ , and it all just dissolves. Gets washed away under the tide of jealousy, of longing. The deep, frantic ache for him that makes you feel so crazy that you seriously consider flying out to North Carolina and finding him yourself. 

Miraculously, these sensations are _bigger_ than the fear. Loving him is the biggest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’d rather drown in the ugly, messy terror of that _with him_ than do anything at all without him. So you sit in his chair at night, drink his whiskey, and wait for him to come the fuck back so you can figure out what to do next. 

Mater has been characteristically persistent at trying to get you out of the house, but you tell him you're sick because it’s mostly true. Always a good friend, he brings soup, tissues, and NyQuil to the house, but you must look effectively and convincingly horrible because he doesn’t even sympathetically hug you, just wishes you a speedy recovery before waving goodbye, galoshes squeaking as he hops up into his ancient tow-truck, driving away into the cool violet of dusk, singing something too off-key for you to make out. You miss him as soon as he’s gone, it’s been _ages_ since you properly hung out, but you’re just not ready to spend time with him drinking beer or casually shooting the shit when your whole _world_ and self-concept are imploding. You also don't feel ready to _tell_ him about any of it yet, even though you know that you’Il need to eventually. You barely have words for this that you feel comfortable using in the privacy of your own mind. Saying them aloud to another human feels so daunting that it twists your stomach, makes your heart race. 

It’s Sally, weirdly enough, who actually gets you out of Doc’s place that night. You’re about to eat the soup and chug enough NyQuil to sleep through the night when you get a text from her. _Hey, stickers! been thinking about you a lot lately, missing being friends and hoping that’s not weird. Saw your Florida win, congrats!! let’s catch up sometime at the wheel well, if you’re up for it. would love to know how you're doing <3 _

Curious and fond, you text back, and it turns out that she gets off in an hour and is free for awhile, so before you can overthink it or talk yourself out of it, you shower, get dressed, and meet her there. 

The first thing you notice is how _happy_ she looks, even if she looks tired, too. There are dark bags under her eyes, some new lines at the tails of them, maybe, but she’s _laughing_ so much, smiling to one of her fellow waitresses as she takes her dark hair down from a bun and shakes it out over her shoulders. You can’t ever remember her laughing that way with you, even though you used to laugh together _so_ much. It was measured laughter, clever laughter, conspiratorial laughter, exasperated laughter. But this is a free, broken-open type of laughter, her eyes shut tightly and her head thrown back, like she's losing herself. It makes your chest clench with a vague and nameless breed of regret. You don't wish you were still with Sally. Hell, you don’t even really wish you had been able to make her laugh like that because you _couldn’t,_ and not from a lack of trying. You two just weren’t right for each other, and there’s always a sadness in realizing something like that. 

“Look at you,” you say as she approaches the outside table that you’ve parked yourself at, hiding behind your aviators even though the sun is rapidly setting, bright orange and bleeding in the horizon. “You look absolutely great, Sal, really. I mean it, in a not-weird way.” 

She laughs again, shaking her head at you as she sits. “I’m glad we’re both so committed to making this not-weird. Though m’pretty sure it’s just _going_ to be weird, no matter what.” 

“I dunno, I’m pretty committed,” you joke, narrowing one eye before realizing that she can’t see, so you take off your glasses, wincing because you’re a little hungover on top of your eyes being perpetually cloudy and stinging with all the fucking _crying_ you’ve been doing. You haven’t cried this hard since since your mom died, you think, even though you used to cry in frustration and self-deprecation every time you lost during your first season of racing. This is different, though. This feels bone-deep. 

Something sobers up on Sally’s face, gets thoughtful and concerned as she sees you in full. “Oh, Stickers,” she sighs, sitting back, pulling away from you. “Do _not_ tell me that you’re still in love with me.” You’re startled, and it must read on your face because she lays her hand over her heart and sighs again. “Thank god, I got worried. You have heartbreak face going on, and I did _not_ want to be the reason for it.” 

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” you say, shaking your head. “Listen, just so that it’s out in the open: what we had was really great, but breaking up with me was the best thing you could have done, probably for both of us. I needed that kick in the pants, and you needed a better boyfriend, so I really have nothing but gratitude. For all of it.” 

She smiles, nodding at you. “Very mature...did Doc help you script that?” 

His name is like peroxide on an open wound, and you very nearly flinch at the sudden and unexpected sting. If she notices, she doesn't say anything, so you just flatten your lips out and try to smile. “Not a script, no...I came up with the whole thing right now, on the handle, believe it or not. Doc, though...uh, Doc probably had something to do with the new and improved version of me that sits before you, so you’re welcome to thank him.” 

“I will,” she winks, sipping from a water bottle, flipping her hair. “I’ll buy him a card, even...I like this new and improved version.” 

“So how have you been?” you ask, desperate to move past Doc’s name, your apparently obvious heartbreak face. “You honestly look really happy.” 

“I honestly _am_ really happy,” she says wistfully, folding her hands on the table and making a face, the sort of face that suggests she can hardly _believe_ how happy she is. Like it’s some sort of miracle. “Really, really happy...happier than I thought I could be, I guess.” 

“Okay, what’s his name?” you ask, ginning. “There’s a guy, I can tell...promise I won’t be jealous. This is decidedly not-weird, remember?” 

“There isn’t a guy, actually,” she says, eyes getting wide as she sits straighter, adjusts her shoulders in this way she always does when she’s preparing to tell you something that she doesn’t think you’re going to like. She pulls out her phone and shows you her lockscreen, which is a picture of her and the coworker you saw only moments ago, the one who was making her laugh with her head thrown back, the ripple of her throat pointed toward the sky. She’s a short, dark-skinned woman you’ve seen around town, a friend of Fillmore’s, you think, and in this picture, she’s kissing Sally’s cheek. “This is Saanvi,” she tells you, setting the phone down. “We’ve been dating for two months now officially, and I’ve never felt more romantically fulfilled in my life.” 

A laugh bubbles out of you reflexively, and you _know_ that it’s probably not the right response, but you just can’t help it. You feel seen and exposed at the same time, known and dissected, and it’s such a messy cocktail of invasive and affirming that you can’t do anything _but_ laugh. Sally looks a little taken aback, so you shake your head and try desperately to choke it down. “No, I’m not...shit, I’m _so,_ so fucking happy for you, Sal. Like, thrilled, honestly...she seems wonderful.” 

“She is,” Sally agrees, pursing her lips carefully, examining you. “This shouldn't come as a surprise, Lightning, I _told you_ when we dated that I liked women, too.” 

“No, I know, and that's not why I’m laughing, I swear...damn, I’m being selfish again, that’s what I’m doing, making shit all about me. I’m trying to work on it, actually,” you explain, your frantic backpedaling making her quirk an eyebrow up at you quizzically. 

“Well, _now_ I’m intrigued,” she grins, sitting back and pretending that she’s holding something and eating from it, presumably a bucket of popcorn. “Do tell...what is _so_ funny?” 

And you weren't planning on talking about this, not to Mater, not to her, not to _anyone._ You didn't think you’d have the words, but before you can even think about it too hard, it’s just spilling out of you, unspooling like thread. 

“It’s just the _timing_ , I guess. Because, like, four days ago, I stumbled headfirst into a gay crisis. So yeah...there you go,” you shrug, like it’s not a big deal, like you haven’t been taking three existential showers a day and living on booze and frozen peas. “But it’s not important, I _really,_ truly want to hear about your girlfriend. She’s gorgeous, you guys are gorgeous together.”

The popcorn turns into a movie reel that she rewinds like you’re playing charades. “Wait, _what?_ Is _that_ what the heartbreak face is all about? Damn, Stickers. I could have told you that about yourself if I’d have known you were ready to hear it. We could have celebrated instead of you having an ice cream sob fest with yourself.” 

“You _knew?”_ you gasp, scalp suddenly prickly, face hot. Again, you feel seen and exposed, known and dissected, heart flayed open right here at the Wagon Wheel, spraying the table in blood. “That—”

“Wait, no, _knew_ is a strong word. Sorry, I _suspected_ or maybe even just…wondered? Like, I didn’t think you were _gay_ gay. I knew you liked women, I just thought you always had the potential to be a lot more fluid about that stuff if you let yourself be.” 

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” you ask, brain still scattered and reeling, whole body so hot and shaky that your fingers would actually have a tremor if you held them up. It’s weird when other people just _see_ things in you that you were willfully blind to for so long. 

“Because I thought you might freak out, plus it wasn't super relevant to our relationship in that moment. We had other issues. _Also,”_ she adds, shrugging in this very decisive way that makes you sit back and prepare to be scolded, “it wasn’t my _job_ to help you figure that shit out. I was actively trying to _not_ take on more of your issues like it was my job, if you recall.” 

“I recall,” you admit, nodding. “Fair enough.” 

“Congrats,” she says then, smiling warmly at you. “For learning things about yourself. Not everyone keeps doing that.” 

“I should be the one issuing congrats,” you remind her. “You’re the one in a solid, healthy new relationship. So...Saanvi. I trust she’s, like, not a mess of bottled-up emotions and zero coping skills? She probably knows how to fix problems without throwing money at them? God, she probably even knows how to load a _dishwasher_ because she’s not an idiot man-baby like your _last_ partner.” 

Sally cracks up, and everything loosens in your chest, feels a little bit less like falling or being cracked open or whatever. You’re stabilizing, even if your hands still shake. She sighs, eyes bright and twinkling at you. “God, I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear you actually _admitting_ to your former incompetence and emotional unintelligence and all that. Doc really did a number on you.” 

Your smile falters, but you try hard to pick it back up. You keep forgetting that he’s not home waiting for you, attributing the emptiness still weighing down your heart to some forgotten, unspoken pain. You have a lot of them, so it’s an easy thing to do until she brings him up again. “I _let_ him...there’s a difference. I’m sure you would have done a number on me, too, if I hadn't been so stubborn about it.” 

“Okay, so he doesn't get all the credit, but I’m still buying him a card,” she crows, before turning in her chair and waving over a waiter. “Hey, Mike! Can you bring me and my ex over here a couple of beers? We’re toasting to how much better things are now.” 

And you don't dispute her because you like seeing her happy, you want her to imagine that you’re _just_ as happy, that you might have a future like hers, waiting for you somewhere in the sunset. Plus, you don't even know if she’s wrong. Maybe things _are_ better now, even if they’re more acutely painful, more confusing, more lonely. At least you’re being honest with yourself for the first time in your entire life. 

So you drink with her and laugh with her and think about how, at the very least, you don't feel consumed with terror _in this moment_ , which maybe means there’s more out there than missing Doc that can grow big enough to dilute the fear into something that hardly matters. 

——

Smokey’s gone bald save for his mustache, which is as heavy and black as the last time you saw it some fifty years ago. He doesn't even bat an eye at you, doesn't scold you, doesn’t treat you like a ghost. He just pours you a gin and tonic like you used to drink back then, back before you ruined gin for yourself forever, slides it across the bar, and says, “Where’s that boy of yours? Surprised you’re not parading him around on your hip like a debutant. You were never subtle enough about that stuff, Hud.” 

He doesn't smile at you, but his eyes are crinkled at the side like he’s thinking about laughing, which is about as much as you ever get out of him when he’s feeling miffed, and you figure he’s got a right to feel pretty miffed after fifty years of radio silence. “McQueen? He’s not my boy,” you grimace, wrinkling your nose at the drink and pushing it back to him before you can smell any more memories. “And I don't drink gin anymore.” 

“You could have fooled me,” he smirks, and you know that he’s talking about Lightning, not the gin, but you choose to ignore it. 

“Whiskey now,” you tell him. “Neat tonight.” 

“Look at you,” he says, pouring a few generous fingers of Jim Beam into a glass. “You really _have_ gotten old like the rest of us.” 

It’s strange catching up with your old racing friends mostly because it’s _not_ strange. You tell the same jokes, they laugh the same way, everyone gives you a hard time exactly the way they used to, the way that _no_ one in Radiator Springs dares to, except for Lightning McQueen, who you’re trying your damnedest not to think about right now. 

“Hud’s coaching the new rookie ‘bad boy’ on the NASCARcircuit,” Louise tells River, who apparently hasn’t been keeping tabs on you the way the rest of them have. 

“Of course he is,” Smokey jokes, popping a beer against the edge of the bar, foam spilling over his palm as he hands it off. “ _He_ used to be the bad boy in racing, an absolute _nightmare_. Always flirting with those city boys until they started a fight with you. I’d have to pay ‘em to keep quiet.” 

“Yeah, but it sure worked,” you remind him. “It would throw their game, they never could race right the morning after.” 

Everyone erupts into raucous laughter, and Louise fans herself, cackling. “The morning after _what?!_ Wait,don’t tell me, don’t tell me, this old gal does _not_ want to know.”

You’re surprised at how easy it is to talk about the things that seemed unspeakable in 1952, that _were_ unspeakable. Everyone _knew_ what was going on back then, what you played at and sometimes meant when you called other men _sweetheart_ out on the track and sucked the salt from your pre-race sunflower seeds off your fingers before winking at them, telling them to eat your dust. You were the _Fabulous_ Hudson Hornet after all, and everyone knew what that meant, too. But to have your old friends just lay it out here on the sticky floor and joke about it isn’t something you ever thought would happen in your lifetime. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be shocked, though. The lot of you, you’re all washed up now, it doesn’t matter what you did, what you’re doing, what you call it. You stared death in the teeth back in the ‘50s and spat on it, but now it’s come round again and is staring back from a long, dimly-lit corridor, calling to you. It’s funny how things change when you’ve grown old, how shit that mattered so much that it could kill you turns into a drinking story for a bunch of old-timers in a bar in the middle of nowhere. 

You’re dizzy, and it’s too hot and stuffy in here, so while Junior heads to the bar to bring back another round, you sneak out or some fresh air, to see the stars, to try and remember why you came back here in the first place. Smokey follows you, though, just like you thought he might. 

“So why’re you back?” he asks, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his coverall pocket and fishing two out. He shoves one between his lips, offering you the other, and you haven't smoked in at least thirty-five years, but you take it anyway. 

“Beats me,” you tell him. “Looking for something here is what I told myself...but the longer I stay and find things, the more I realize that I was probably just running.” 

“I didn’t mean why are you back _here,_ I meant what in the hell dragged you back to _racing?_ You said you were _done,_ Hud, done for real, and I believed you, which is saying a lot because you used to be a hell of a liar back then.”

“Just to you,” you grind out, letting him light your cigarette. You inhale and cough, shaking your head. “You were a hard ass, and I had trouble to make.” 

He blows out smoke with a dry laugh, and you stand side by side together in the darkness, gazing into the black of the night yawning above you, into so many stars. It makes you miss Radiator Springs, where there are even more. “It was the kid,” you confess after a moment, voice rough and thin because you’re not used to a version of Thomasville where you can _say_ this stuff out loud and not in code. “The one who’s not my boy.” 

“What, the one who dragged you back into racing or the one you’re running from?” Smoky asks wryly, taking a long inhale. “I read your letters. You were never subtle about that shit, and m’not blind.” 

You cough at that, throat burning. You’d been feeling chilly out here in the night, but you don’t anymore...now you feel hot, exposed. “So if you know, then why are you asking?” 

“Don’t know it _all_ , and I’m an awful gossip, you know that. So is McQueen like you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “There’s a saying about how old dogs shouldn’t mess with new tricks.” 

“That’s not how the saying goes,” you tell him, making a face, eyes stinging as you inhale. The smoke tastes good, though, even if it burns, so you suck in some more. “And no, he’s not like me.” 

“Ah, so he’s like those boys you used to rile up. The ones who’d follow you to the bathroom and deck you after it was over?”

“No, no,” you sigh, heart clenching, suddenly wanting to defend him even though you’re working hard not to feel a single thing about him that isn't pain. You don't want to group him in somewhere terrible, with the busted lips and whispered slurs of your past. He hurts, badly, but he’s not one of them. “Not at all, he’s good...a real good kid, just not like me. Or he might be, but he sure as hell doesn’t know it.” 

“You sure about that?” Smoky counters, turning to stare you down point-blank for the first time since he started asking questions. He raises an eyebrow, and you turn away, blowing an easy billow of smoke into the night. “Could have fooled me with those pictures you send. He looks at you like you hung the moon.” 

“He admires me,” you say, waving a hand through the smoke, watching tendrils scatter and fade. “And he’s confused, just another kid with no dad looking to fill the void. Maybe looking for the wrong things in the wrong places.” 

“Isn’t that what you used to _do,_ though? See it in the ones who didn’t see it themselves and draw it to the surface? It was a game for you, part of how you won,” he reminds you, and just hearing it stated like that sends a sharp pang into your chest, makes your jaw tighten. You _did_ used to do that, you used the way that you wanted men to get ahead, wielded the wound like a weapon so that you hurt them before they could hurt you first. But that’s not _all_ it was. Your desire was not—it _is_ not—a game. You _are_ your desire. You just had to play games to stay alive, to keep from crumbling. 

“That was a long time ago,” you reply curtly, putting the rest of the cigarette out on the brick wall behind you. “I’m old now, and he's young...he’ll figure it out somewhere, doesn’t need to be me.” 

_I love him,_ you think, because of course that’s what changes and ruins everything for you. 

Smokey sees more than you’re comfortable with, reads between the lines in your letters, and _still,_ you don’t think men like him ever think of _love_ when they think of men like you. He’ll always view it as a game, a spectacle, a sordid thing you bad-boy racers do in the dark, like making moonshine. Love is reserved for women, for pure men like him and McQueen, men who aren’t stuck in one single unwavering, dirty way, going on to live lives in St. Louis with babies and wives while the rest of you fall to your knees in the shadows and open your mouths. 

“Is that what you want?” Smokey asks after awhile, narrowing his eyes at you again. “For him to figure it out somewhere else? You’re his mentor, he’s used to you telling him what to do. Maybe that’s what he wants.” 

The thought sends a lick of heat up your spine, but you shove it away, suddenly angry that Smokey isn’t the sort of old-timer who just says _your business is your business, and I don’t wanna hear a lick of what you do behind closed doors or on the weekend, you hear me?_ just like the old doctor you interned for in medical school who once found you and a janitor in a supply closet, his hand shoved into the front of your scrubs. But no, Smokey has to fucking pry, has to needle everything out of you like he did back when you thought you knew everything about racing, and he asked you why you ever lost if that was the case. “Some part of him might think he wants that, but I don’t think he knows what he wants,” you explain. 

“Have you asked him?” Smokey prods then, like that’s a _thing_ men like you do, ask each other what you want. Truth happens, but it happens in silence, in expressions, in tilted chins and lingering glances and a trip to a locking stall with a hope that someone might follow. “Maybe you should ask him.” 

“Yeah, okay,” you scoff, turning on your heel to head back to the bar for another drink. “Thanks for the advice, coach.” 

“You never fucking listened to me,” he gripes, puffing smoke and lazily following you. “Dunno why I bother. Nothing’s changed.” 

Like all of Smokey’s advice, it sticks with you in this annoying, unshakable way. Lodging itself under your skin like a splinter and festering, forcing you to think about it all the time even if you don’t want to, the skin around it sore and infected. 

That night in your motel room, you lie on the narrow bed and stare at the ceiling while your head spins, remembering the smell of gin, the smell of Lightning McQueen spread out and shivering on your sheets, begging for you. He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, and you’re sure it’s not what _you_ want, but maybe just _letting_ him know that there’s a disconnect between those things would _help._ You don’t know what else to do about it, anyway, and that’s what’s _bothering_ you so much about Smokey’s suggestion: you can’t come up with a better solution. All you’ve thought of is leaving the town you call home to hide out in your hometown, kicking bleachers and dreaming about the glory days so you don’t have to think about what happened in Miami. It’s not an answer, and it’s not moving forward. It’s just bought time. 

Over the next few days, you take a lot of walks while the sun is still out, and as soon as it drops past the line of trees that make the horizon line, you head to the bar to reminisce, to laugh, to take the cigarettes you’re offered before handing them back half-finished because your throat is too sore. And all the while, you imagine asking Lightning McQueen what the fuck he wants. 

It’s almost an impossible thing to fathom, at first. It takes you four entire days of hiking and sweating and cursing under your breath to get to a place where even the _hypothetical_ version of this conversation you conjure up in your head doesn’t make you feel ill. 

It’s not that you think he’ll say something intentionally cruel or turn on you the way that you’ve been turned on before. It’s that you’re almost _positive_ he’ll respond _flippantly,_ with _no_ comprehension of the impact it has on you to be viewed as his disposable science experiment, as his willing coach, so desperate to touch a boy again that it doesn’t matter if it’s only temporary. 

You spend much of your time staring through your sunglasses at the wide, broken open North Carolina sky, convincing yourself that if that’s what he wants, so be it. You need to be okay with whatever it is. You can proceed accordingly after he tells you or you wrestle it out of him, but you’ve _got to ask_ first. 

On the fifth day, you check out of your motel and drive the rental car back to the airport after promising everyone you’d come back. “Bring your boy next time,” River tells you, slapping your shoulder, and you nod to him, shaking your head. 

“I’ll bring him someday,” you promise. “But he’s not my boy.” 

Smokey flat-out rolls his eyes at you, like you’re lying or blind, and that sticks under your skin until it hurts, too, and you worry at it the whole plane ride, thinking about the ways in which you might have decided things about McQueen before asking him first. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god guys here it is!!!! Buckle up, grab some tissues maybe, if you're like me and cry at long-awaited reunions and confessions and old men getting things they thought they would never have again. I love you all thank you for reading this as tenderly as I wrote it.

You wake up, you shower, you brush your teeth, and you get dressed in your standard blue jeans and white t-shirt, tucked in. You even _comb your hair,_ which is an impressive feat considering you’ve failed to do anything so intentional with your appearance since you left Miami. It’s overgrown, you desperately need a haircut, but that seems like a Herculean task when the mere act of _replenishing groceries_ so that you don’t _starve_ to death is a struggle. You’ve got to start somewhere, though, so you’re starting small. The store and then to Flo’s to _finally_ get that drink you've been promising Mater since he heard you were seen at the Wheel Well, alive if not well. 

It’s a good day, though, you think. Or at least a better one, even if you can’t say why, haven’t noticed anything concretely different about it worth mentioning. Your heart just feels a little lighter, and you manage to look at yourself in the bathroom mirror long enough to smooth the chaos of your hair into the semblance of order before you put your sunglasses on and head out, and that’s gotta count for something. 

You come back in the evening exhausted and mostly sober since you only had a beer and even that was rough to get down. You’re about to shower the sweat and the grit of the day off, but as soon as you click open the door, you know—you just _know_ —that he’s back.

Instantly, your heart leaps up into your throat, and your stomach drops so hard that you almost drop along with it, collapsing there in the foyer beside the umbrella stand where he always keeps his shoes. And there they are, where they haven’t been in _days,_ and you’re so wrecked with relief and terror at the sight that the whole of your body is vibrating. “Doc?” you call, shrugging off your jacket, dropping it, and picking it up again before tossing it onto the back of the couch as you walk through the house on weak legs.

He's in the kitchen, standing beside the open fridge and clutching the handle of it in a white-knuckled grip, like you startled him. You stop in the doorway and just stare for a moment, feeling _bowled_ over by the certainty and clarity with which you _want_ him, _god,_ fuck. You want him so _badly._

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in nearly a week, but also it’s the first time you’ve seen him since _seeing_ yourself without smoke and mirrors and the abstraction of denial. Since _knowing._ Part of you wondered, even _hoped,_ thatseeing him again would _change_ things, force you to reevaluate whether your revelations were authentic or born from confusion and the terrible ache of missing him. 

But being faced with the _reality_ of his body, the space it takes up, his straight back, the smell of his aftershave, his blue eyes stunned and steely and locked on you as he shuts the fridge with a snap, like he could pin you to the wall with a look alone, only _solidifies_ it all beyond a shadow of a doubt. Your want crystalizes, spreads over you like fire. You need so _badly_ for him to _come for you,_ slam you into the doorframe, and put you where he wants you, press his face to the ditch of your neck and make your skin raw with his mustache, his hands all over your skin, under your shirt, pushed down the back of your jeans. You want him _terribly,_ but right now all you can do is stare, heart pounding in your throat as you waver like a flame. “You’re back,” you say stupidly, rubbing your hands together because you don’t know what to do with them. 

“Well, I see you haven’t gotten smarter in my absence,” he replies evenly, taking a ginger ale out of the fridge, popping the top, and drinking from it for a few agonizing seconds. You watch the flicker of his throat as he swallows like you always do, rapt, and wonder how the fuck you never noticed the way you _do_ things like this, how your eyes are always all over him, noticing the details, taking stock of them like it’s your job. “I got here and showered, but you used up all my soap, so I made do with the tiny little hotel-sized brick you left me. Came out here to make myself some food only to find that you’ve _apparently_ been living off _Lean Cuisines_ and canned protein shakes like some sort of college kid.”

“And ginger ale,” you add weakly, gesturing to the sweating can in his hand. “Plus, Lean Cuisine isn’t terrible. At least it’s not fast food...or ramen.” 

“I had one,” Doc tells you, raising an eyebrow. “ _Isn’t terrible_ is mighty generous.” 

You still can’t read a single thing in his gaze, and it’s _killing_ you, you _need_ to know what he’s thinking, if he’s genuinely angry at you or just giving you a hard time like he always does before the coldness will melt away and he’ll hug you, tell you about his trip. 

You wonder if he’s _forgotten_ what happened in Miami, that he _came_ right in front of you. You wonder if he knows you haven't stopped thinking about it, and you wonder if he thinks about you, too, if he’s maybe just as confused about where you stand with each other as you are, so he’s playing it cool until you break. “If I knew when you were coming back, I would have had food and soap waiting for you,” you tell him, stomach in knots. “But you didn’t tell me anything.” It comes out sad and rough, without bitterness, but still his gaze remains unflinching. You remember the grocery bags then, waiting where you dropped them by the door in your wild haste to find him, to see him. “I went shopping today, though. More Lean Cuisines, unfortunately, but also some vegetables and some whiskey because I drank all of yours, but I didn’t get soap. I can go back for it tomorrow or even right now, if you want...I’ll go back out.” 

He shakes his head and turns away from you to face the counter, neck bent, gaze cast to the floor, thumb digging into the ginger ale can so hard that it dents beneath the pressure. You wait for him to say something, to turn around, but all that happens is that his shoulders tremble as he exhales and something about it is so terrifyingly vulnerable that you don’t trust yourself not to walk right up and touch him before you know if that’s okay, so you turn on your heel and leave the room to get the groceries, make yourself useful while you catch your breath, slow your heart. 

When you return, he’s wheeled back around but his gaze is still fixed earthward, burning holes in the linoleum, jaw set tight. He doesn’t look up as you put all the food away, just inhales sharply every once and awhile like he’s going to say something before he stops and lets his breath out again. Each time it happens, your heart stutters, the seconds drumming on as you realize that you’re going to fall apart if you don't tell him. 

He needs to know. He needs to _know._ He needs to know if you’re going to keep living in his house, if you’re going to share drinks with him and watch movies with him and put away the fucking groceries you bought for him. He needs to know that while he was gone, you slept in his bed, you fucked yourself open on your fingers in his shower with his soap, you cried so hard that your chest still aches, you _missed him so profoundly_ that you’re not sure you can live through something like that again. He needs to _know._

_“_ Fuck,” you wheeze, shutting the fridge too hard and crossing the room to him, close enough that he recoils and you have to take another step because you’re worried that if you don’t trap him against the counter, he’s just going to leave again, lock himself in his bedroom with his toy car and the pillow that you drooled on before you washed the case so he’d never find out. He stares down at you, lips pursed tight and defensive, eyes sharp behind the flash of his glasses, hands braced behind him on the counter so intensely that a muscle twitches in his forearm.

He’s so _wary,_ and you’re half-certain that he's about to push past you, so you take a wild, hectic, agonizing breath, crowd him up against the counter so closely that you can feel the heat from his body, and blurt, “Listen, I can’t do this anymore.” 

It makes something dark stain his eyes, a sudden hurt so sharp and wet that it slices through you as his mouth twitches and parts before he steels himself again, hard and cold like the flicker never happened at all. “What _specifically_ can’t you do?” he grinds out, voice scraping low and deep in your gut. You missed it, you _missed_ it. Even if he hates you right now, you missed it _so badly._

“The thing we have now, the...you watching me,” you explain, throat getting tight as you say it, heart pounding so hard that you _know_ he can hear its wild, miserable thud. 

“Good,” he says sharply, taking off his glasses and setting them down on the counter like he can’t bear to look at you dead-on right now, raising one hand to scrub over his face defensively. You’re close enough that you can see the condensation from the ginger ale can on his fingers, and something about that makes a tight furl of longing come apart inside you. “I can’t do it either.” 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, trembling, the words coming out clipped and aborted and all wrong as you force them out. “Thought it was what I wanted, but...fuck, I was so stupid, I’m just so sorry.” 

He’s shaking his head, rubbing at his closed eyes like he's so fucking _tired,_ chest expanding on an inhale deep enough that his ribcage almost brushes against yours. You want that, want to curl up against his chest, just hold him and be held and melt into the solidity and the heat of it for a moment and let your touch say what you can’t, but it’s impossiblewhen he’s refusing to look at you, when his eyes are shut so tight that there’s a wetness at the corners as he forces it out. “What do you want then?” he asks, voice muffled, worn out at the edges, like it’s a question he’s carried along with him for a long time so each word has softened and frayed.

He looks at you, finally, eyes blue and wet and leaking like the whole entire fucking ocean, melted ice encircling the blackest core, and they cut through you so hard that the truth bleeds right out, the wound fatal. “The real thing,” you admit, shrugging, carding a hand through your once-combed hair, rucking it up into a mess. 

“What does that mean?” he asks. 

“What do you _think_ it means?” you breathe, palm slick and trembling as you reach out and tentatively, tentatively lay it on his forearm. He stills but doesn’t pull away, gaze dropping down to your hand, the way that your thumb is pressed into the ribbon of muscle pulled taut as he grips the counter. It’s the same muscle from the pin and stretch, and you think back to the pool, to all the ways you tricked yourself into thinking it was _normal_ to crave the heat of his palms. “It means that I want to take back the no-touching rule,” you whisper, sliding your palm up to the ditch of his elbow, into the rolled sleeve of his white oxford shirt, where the skin is thinner, softer, looser. “I want to touch you, want you to touch me.” 

“That all?” he asks quietly, studying you as you thumb over him, your movements slow and exploratory and deliberate. This, _just this,_ your fingers tucked into the sleeve of his shirt, has your cock twitching in your jeans, your stomach roiling and dropping in mortifying intervals. “Because...the real thing, kid, it’s more than this,” he explains, bicep jumping reflexively and involuntarily under your palm as you push deeper, making his breath catch. “For, me, anyway...it’s too much. It’s everything.” 

“I want everything,” you say easily, because it’s the truth. You want the creaky mornings when he complains about his knees, you want his sheets, you want his kisses, you want him _inside_ you. You want the stuff you haven't even _thought_ of yet, because if he wants to give it, that’s good enough for you. He shakes his head, though, and pulls his arm away from your grip. 

“No, you don’t,” he tells you, gaze sweeping to the ceiling. You want to cup his face in your palms and bring him down, force him to look at you, roll up onto the balls of your feet to press your brow to his and suck in his breath, but instead you’re just standing there, stunned that he could tell you so _easily_ that everything you just worked to realize in the last few days and confess isn’t _real._

_“_ Don’t...don’t _tell_ me what I want and don’t want, Doc,” you argue fiercely, voice shaking. Your hands are lost and wandering again, so you tangle them in your hair, pulling at it before you rub them over your face, feeling distantly shocked by how _hot_ it is, what he _does_ to you. “Not after you’ve held out on me for so fucking long, acted like you didn’t care, made me so that I can’t fucking _think_ about _anything_ else but this, but you. While you were gone, I fell apart. Don’t _tell_ me you know better than I do, what I _want.”_

_“_ I care,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at you, and then he reaches out and pushes your own hands away from your hair, cuffs your flushed face in one big palm, and drags you closer. “You don’t even know, you’ve got no _fucking_ idea...what it’s been like for me, living with you, not getting to—” 

Without even meaning to, you tilt into the touch to where it makes you dizzy, swaying so that you have to brace your hands on the counter on either side of his body, your chests a whisper away, shirts touching if either of you inhales particularly deeply, nothing but charged, humid air separating the pounding of your hearts. He stops talking as your eyes drift shut, like he can _see_ the truth for the first time, like he’s finally, _finally_ listening to you. “I thought…I thought maybe you made me fall in love with you,” you mumble, because it’s easier to get these words out when your eyes are shut and he’s touching you, grounding you. “But I think I was falling the whole time, all along. I...growing up, I carried your picture for good luck. Wanted you close, even then.” 

There’s a pause, an exhalation. 

“Kid,” he breathes, so quietly that you’re not sure if you imagined it or not, lost it in the frantic roar of blood in your ears. Then he’s thumbing over your cheekbone, drawing you in, guiding you, and you _go,_ eyes fluttering open to find him looking at you, the blue as soft as you’ve ever seen it, curious and warm even if it’s scared, so pretty that it takes your breath away. He lays his other hand on your other cheek and just holds your face there for a moment while you steady yourself between his palms. “You tell me to stop when it’s too much,” he says then, releasing the pressure of his grip to slide his hands light and sweet down your neck, making you shiver. 

“Okay,” you murmur, braced for anything. 

All he does is touch you, though. Pet you, trace your bones like he’s blind and just trying to figure out what you look like. It’s slow and so soft, no one in your whole fucking _life_ has ever touched you like this. You didn't even know it was _possible_ , that you were worth being touched with such attentive, reverent, gentle strokes. It feels like a ritual, somehow, something sacred and not to be interrupted, so as badly as you want to get your hands on him in return, you don’t. You keep them locked on the edge of the counter, the insides of your arms brushing against his sides as he shifts but nothing else. 

He thumbs over your jaw down to your pulse, where he presses his index and middle fingers over the wild thrum, like he wants to count the beats, track exactly what he does to you, how crazy he makes your heart. Then he’s brushing his knuckles back up to your cheek with one hand and up into your hair with another as chills break out over your back and scalp, and you’re shivering in his palms, cock thick in your jeans _just_ from this. Callous scraping against your temple, blunt nails against your skull, everything so tender and careful, like you’re precious. 

“You’re so perfect,” he marvels, tilting your chin back and forth slowly, examining you from the left, from the right, eyes sweeping over every line in deliberate, measured strokes. “You must know what you do to me, what you’ve done to me.” 

“No,” you admit, gasping as he gently guides you closer so that your legs almost notch together. He palms down your neck to your shoulder to the outside of your arm, fingers digging in as he rubs over the flickering muscle of your bicep, deep and sweet. “I felt like I _tried_ to drive you crazy,” you tell him, licking your lips. “But in the end I was always the crazy one. It was always me that was falling apart.” 

“You’re just messier about it,” he corrects, the corner of his mouth quirking up into the most fleeting smile. That single second makes you want to _cry,_ though, heart leaping in relief right as your stomach drops. He gently tugs the stretched-out v-neck of your shirt to open wider, thumbing over your collar bone and then under it, pinking up the delicate skin as he rubs. 

You watch as he smooths that hand up to your cheek again and cups it for a few lingering seconds before thumbing directly and deliberately over your mouth. An involuntary groan rips out your throat as you wet your lips with your tongue reflexively, tasting salt from him, needing _more_. He does it again, slower, back and forth. Just rubbing your hungry, wet pout with his thumb over and over again until it’s swollen, until the whole of your body is trembling, positively _aching_ with how fucking badly you need him to kiss you, every cell yearning toward him, every breath wetter and more labored and more desperate, your cock thick and heavy against the zipper of your jeans. 

When he finally does it, it feels like coming. The culmination of months’ worth of longing, an avalanche, a tsunami, if avalanches and tsunamis were made of fire.The heat of it makes you feel faint, static exploding behind your eyelids as his lips press hard and absolving into yours, mustache scouring your upper lip. The circuit is complete and so is the ritual somehow, and it means you can touch him, so you _do,_ palming up his back, feeling the muscle framing his spine twitch and relax under your spread fingers. You touch the back of his neck, his hair still damp from the shower, down to the ripple of his shoulders as he holds you, your mouths moving hot and tender amid the mess of it all. 

He kisses you and he kisses you, and it only takes a few frantic seconds before you make it wet, dirty, because you've been breathing his breath for so long that your mouth is _flooded_ in anticipation, and you need him, you’ve needed him this whole fucking time. 

He makes a stunned sound in his throat before licking into you, holding you right where he wants you even as you _try_ to surge against him, press your bodies flush so that you can grind your cock into his, show him how fucking hard he’s got you, how _badly_ you want it. But he shifts his grip down to your shoulders and keeps you arrested with his elbows bent between you, holding you immobile as he kisses your mouth open, gives you his tongue. 

It’s not _enough_ , but it’s pretty damned close. 

Doc’s _kissing you,_ he’s letting you kiss _him_ , he’s sucking and biting like he’s hungry, groaning into your panting mouth. He’s tender and rough and sweet and fierce just like you _knew_ he would be, and you can’t even remember why you were so scared of this, why it felt impossible to consciously dream about. It’s so _good,_ it feels _holy,_ and you just want more and more, until you're drowning in the very thing you denied yourself. 

You can’t, though, because Doc keeps stopping to tilt back and breathe, look you up and down with his eyes shot and his mouth red from your teeth, gaze half-lidded but careful as it sweeps over you, like he's checking if you’re okay. “God,” you slur, pitching and swaying in his grip as he kneads up and down your arms to keep you steady, gently finger-combs your hair from your sweat-damp forehead. “How are you...how are you taking this so slow?” 

“I’ve waited a long time, kid,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers sweetly over your mouth, your chin, above your top lip. You’re raw and scrubbed here from him, and the sting is one of the best things you’ve ever felt; you don't know how you _lived_ without it, how you’ve survived so many kisses without getting marked from them, scoured open. “I can wait a little longer.” 

“I can’t,” you rasp, even though you can, you _will,_ as long as he keeps kissing you like you’re the last oasis in a desert and he’ll dry up with your spit on his tongue. 

“I want to give you time...a chance to back out if you need to,” he adds, tucking your too-long hair behind your ear. “It’s alright if you do, you know...I’d understand. We can stop to talk about this, or—”

“I’m not backing out, shit, I’m finally getting what I want,” you hiss, turning your head to press your face into his broad palm, to open your mouth on it, to lick up the lifeline, slick and messy, making him groan. “But it’s nice, sort of, to have you check in. Ask me what I want...never had that before, not like this,” you tell him, voice softened against his skin. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, but you can tell it’s a different question from the first time, not _what do you want from me?_ but _what do you want me to_ do _to you?_ It’s so much, so wild and heady that you have to shut your eyes for a moment and whimper, bite your lip, rubbing into the cup of his palm. 

“Your cock,” you admit, the word so dirty and hot in your mouth that you feel yourself throb. “To see it.” He shuts his eyes, and his palm flexes against your face before it drops to your shoulder and squeezes, hard enough that your heart quickens. And, fuck, you love that, the fact that he’s _visibly_ affected by you. “Please,” you beg, and he looks back at you, gaze broken open into something lost and wild, the bluest-blue searing into your skin. 

He lets go of you for the first time since he touched you and braces his arms behind him as he clutches the counter, leaning back. “It’s yours,” he says quietly. “But you gotta do all the work. Gotta unbutton these pants, get it out all on your own,” he tells you, and your eyes inevitably drop to the crotch of his trousers, which are visibly tented. Your mouth floods, your heart picks up in your chest. “I’m not gonna hold your hand through this, kid. You need to show me you want it.” 

“Fuck,” you whine, pitching forward, pressing your face into his shoulder and mouthing over the shape of it through his shirt while he stays there, grip remaining white-knuckled on the edge of the counter like it takes _so much_ for him to keep from touching you now that he knows that he can. “That’s okay, I like chances to prove myself,” you remind him, though you’re not sure he hears, your voice quiet and wrecked over what you’re about to do. 

Like everything else tonight, it happens in slow motion. You pull back to _look_ again, to drink in the sight of him, remembering how quickly and easily you lost your mind in Miami the second you saw the concrete evidence that you'd turned Doc on. He’s hard now like he was hard then, but you’re fully clothed this time, and all he’s done is _kiss_ you. It’s comforting that he’s as fucked up as you are, as hungry and trembling over something so small. You reach out and trail your fingers over his thin, black leather belt, starting at his hip and ending right beside the buckle, mouth dry, cock twitching. There’s a wet spot in your briefs, and it makes you squirm as you hump the air reflexively while he studies the careful, deliberate movement of your hands. “You scared?” 

“Mhmm, a little,” you admit, flattening one palm over the buckle, the other hovering just over the obscene bulge of his cock, making him gasp even though you haven’t touched him yet. You can feel the heat bleeding through, and it makes you want to drop to your knees and press your face there, inhale from him, but you can’t make your legs move, so you just swallow thickly and say, “But don't think that means I wanna stop. I don’t, not even a little bit, Doc, I...fuck,” you moan, unbuckling his belt even though your fingers are trembling, your palms newly damp with sweat. “Wanna see it so fucking bad.” 

“Take it out, then,” he mutters, voice hardly anything more than the hoarse rumble of distant thunder, so low that you shiver. “Unless you only wanna see and aren’t ready to touch yet.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I... _god,_ I want...not just with my hands, my mouth, in...everywhere,” you babble in a messy, desperate stammer, stomach dropping as you unbutton his trousers and hear his breath catch in his throat. 

“We’ll see,” he says gently. 

You take a deep, shaky breath and move one of your hands down to feel him through his pants, at first just brushing your knuckles up and down the length before you decide that’s not good enough and open your palm, squeezing experimentally. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the flex of it under your hand makes your stomach twist up in longing, the heat and steel-hardness so fucking good that you have to keep swallowing saliva. “Oh, _god,_ Doc,” you pray, voice ripped open and bleeding with vulnerability. “It’s so fucking _big._ ” 

You're gaze flicks up to him, desperate and pleading, but his eyes are shut tight in overwhelm or maybe even concentration, like he's trying not to thrust up into your hand as you feel him out. “Not that big,” he says, forcing his eyes open to lock on yours, the blue bowling you over yet again. “Maybe compared to you.” 

It curls hot and tight and delicious in your gut, and you’re not sure why, but it feels _really good_ to imagine your size difference, to imagine him thinking your cock is attractive, not just in spite of but perhaps _because_ of its size in relation to his. “It’d be big _in me,_ too,” you murmur as you get both hands on him through his clothes, smoothing over the bulge in greedy strokes. It makes your face hot to admit that you’ve thought about it, him bending you in half over the edge of the bed and fucking you, splitting you open, filling you up. “It’d probably hurt...you’d crack me in half, old man,” you slur, the whole sentence broken in places over your suddenly shallow breath. 

He curses, letting his head loll back before snapping up to look at you, sharp and burning. “I wouldn’t hurt you unless you wanted me to,” he growls very seriously, prying one hand off the counter to cuff you behind the neck again. “Otherwise I’d...I’d go so slowly, so gently, so it felt good. I’d be so careful with you, take such good care of you,” he explains, the words tender and filthy-hot all at once because he's talking about how he’d _fuck you,_ like he’s thought about _fucking your ass_ with this big perfect cock, and it’s so incomprehensibly hot that you’re shaking, you’re whimpering and chewing your lips as you press your forehead into his again and drink in his breath, subconsciously swiveling your hips and arching your back because you want it so, so badly. 

“God, that night, at the hotel in Miami, I _wanted_ you to, would have let you put it in me, would have let you do _anything_ ,” you admit, the dirty truth spilling into the space between your panting mouths. 

He doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and groans wordlessly before pitching in to kiss you hard, fuck your mouth open with his tongue so that you’re sucking it, gasping around it, squeezing his cock through his pants and wondering how _this,_ this moment right here, feels more like sex than anything else in your whole life ever has. He pulls away with a lewd, wet sound, grips your hair in his fist, and says, “Take it out first, get a good look at it before you start saying shit that you might not actually mean.” 

“I mean it,” you hiss, pressing your open mouth to the shell of his ear as you unzip his trousers to shove one hand inside. “I mean it so fucking much.” 

He shudders and gasps as you get your hand around him under his boxers, which are wet with precum like he’s been dripping this whole time, just like you have. The length burns in your palm, hot and sweat-sticky and soft-over-hard in this way that makes you cry out, like you’re the one being touched. “ _Fuck_ , easy, baby,” he whispers, rubbing his palm gently up the back of your scalp, the word _baby_ ripping through you like a white-hot knife. “S’okay, you can slow down.” 

“Doc,” you slur, thumbing through the wetness at the crown, stunned at how soft and puffy it feels over the internal _hardness_ of it all, thrumming with his heartbeat. “You can call me that again, can call me that whenever you want.” 

He laughs at you, but it’s gruff and awed, and his cock flexes in your palm, so you _know_ he likes it, the thought of you being his baby, his _boy,_ and Jesus _Christ_ , does it make you want to do a good job for him, to take every inch of this thick shaft in your hand. You prop your forehead against his shoulder and look down between your bodies as you work his dick out into the open with one hand, shoving his boxers and trousers under his balls with the other. “Look good, baby boy?” he murmurs against your ear, soft and dark. 

You can’t fucking _take it,_ everything _hurts,_ your cock trapped in your jeans, your stomach twisting and plummeting in overwhelm as you watch your hand jacking him off, moving up and down another man’s cock, big and red and shining with slick. “So good,” you agree, and you realize with a pang in your gut that it’s not just _any_ man’s cock, it’s _Doc’s_ , and you’re not touching him exactly how you’ve always touched yourself, you’re touching him how _he_ _taught_ _you_ to touch yourself, the motions slow and deliberate and teasing. He trained you how to touch him, and it’s so fucking hot that you feel _sick_ with it. “Wanna feel it against mine,” you confess, because you can’t stop thinking about it, both of them in your hand, and you won’t be able to completely curl around the combined girth, you’re pretty sure, but it’s so unbelievably _hot_ for some reason, the idea of him being so thick that he crowds you out, dwarfs you. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, your jaw, mouth hot and wet and open, teeth scraping as he licks up the sweat that’s collected at your pulse. “Okay, kid, get it out then.” 

“You get it out,” you tell him, squeezing his cock, deepening your stroke from idle exploration to an intentional, measured rub. You want to make him feel good, you want him to _forget_ that he thinks you don’t want this. You want him to fall apart in your hands like you’ve been dying to fall apart in his. “Don’t wanna let go...and don’t you wanna touch it? My cock? Been getting to look but not touch, you probably want—”

“ _Fuck,”_ he grunts before he bites you hard enough that it stings but sweet enough that it makes you gasp and groan, makes your back hollow out because apparently that’s your latest response to the way he _touches you,_ to push your ass into the air and beg. “Of course I want to, but not...I don’t want to make you come standing in my kitchen, don’t want it to be over,” he growls, exhalation hot and damp against your neck. “Wanna lay you out in my bed and spend hours on you. Wanna worship that pretty little cock.” 

“Oh, my fucking _god,_ Doc,” you whine, hand stuttering to a stop on him as he twitches, precum bubbling out of the slit and dripping onto your thumb in a hot, sticky bead. 

“See, it’s different for me than it is for you,” he says then, and he’s _wrong,_ why the fuck can’t he see how _wrong_ he is, how ripped open you are, what a goddamned _wreck_ you are at everything he says. You curse and let go of his cock for as long as it takes you to unbuckle your own belt and slide it from the denim loops, eyes fierce and fiery as you unbutton and yank your Levis down under the curve of your ass, leaving your white cotton briefs on so that you can fucking _show_ him. The mortifying wet spot, the way you’ve soaked them through without even being touched. 

“Look at me,” you demand, gesturing to yourself with one hand as you take him back in the other, your movement greedy, clumsy. “Just look at this mess...I’ve never put a wet spot in my underwear before this. Never. Haven’t gotten hard from just kissing in ages, not since I was fourteen,” you add, rutting up against the back of your hand while you palm him, squeezing, rubbing. “It’s not different. You fucking break me, okay?” 

“Take those off,” he chokes out, finally, fucking _finally_ pumping his cock in time with your hand, fucking your grip, hips working in graceless circles. He hooks his index and middle fingers into the elastic of your briefs and pulls it away from your skin, stealing a hungry look at your cock. “Bring it right here, right...fuck, yeah,” he sighs as you do as he says, struggle out of your underwear, and let go of his cock to clutch at his hip instead, desperate to feel him against you, to share that heat. 

You lose a few seconds in his arms, pitifully encircled there, humping your cock against his, blind with the heat, the stickiness, the weight of him flexing against you as he holds you tight and unyielding against his body. You must look ridiculous, flushed and messy and trembling with dry, hungry sobs, jeans falling down your thighs as you rut into him like you can’t control yourself. 

“Here, let me,” he rasps into your ear, pushing at you so that there’s enough space for him to fit his arm between your bodies and take both of your cocks in hand, pulling your length flush and parallel up against his, the feeling of it _unbearably_ hot-slick and dizzying. He strokes you together as you watch with your heart in your throat, amazed by how easy it is for him to hold you, how small and young and vulnerable you look pressed up against the thick, glorious rage of him. “God, look at that,” he marvels, dabbing his finger into the fluid beading at your slit. “Most perfect fucking thing, so sweet...can’t wait to suck the come out of you.” 

“Shit, _Doc,_ take me to bed,” you beg, knees starting to give out and tremble, stomach rolling over so many times that you’re not sure you can stay upright. Your mind is a blur, you’re so turned on that you can hardly breathe, and then he’s kissing you, stealing the little air you have left in your lungs. It’s fine, all of you belongs to him, even the air that was once inside you. You lick his lips even as he pulls back, chasing the heat of his mouth, vision whiting out.

“Yeah, I’ll take you to bed,” he murmurs, working your cocks together in sweet, gentle strokes as you tremble against him, thighs flexing and quaking. “I’ll meet you there, but gotta get us some water. Warm it up for me?” 

He kisses you, lets go of you, pulls away all slow and gentle and careful like he _knows_ that without him to hold you steady, you’re in danger of collapsing, of flying to bits because he’s the glue that holds your soul together. You shake as he disentangles himself from you, tucking his cock back into his underpants and waving you away, brows raised.

As you stumble down the hallway, holding your jeans up so you don’t trip on them, your head spins, your cock throbs, and you wonder why the fuck he thinks _he’s_ the one who’s in danger of getting hurt from wanting _too much._

_—-_

You cannot fucking _believe him._

He’s hopping off to your bedroom all eager and flushed, hard against his stomach, like he can’t _wait_ to have you back. Everything feels surreal and in slow motion as you grab a water bottle from the fridge with your whole body in tremors, watching your hands shake as you hold them out in front of you to observe. You feel like you’re dreaming, like you’ve _died,_ like you’ve slipped into some alternate universe where everything you want from him is something that he’s willing to give you and _then_ some. This _cannot be reality,_ but as you walk down the hall, you can _see_ him in your bed, his knees bent and spread, his blue jeans still tangled around them, white t-shirt rucked up his chest while he plays with his little cock for you, one arm raised above his head, gripping your headboard like something right out of your basest, most self-indulgent fantasies of him. 

You stand in the doorway and watch, shaking your head in disbelief that you get to _touch_ something so perfect. And not just touch him but _kiss_ him, taste his salty-sweet perfect spit, feel the way his breath catches in his chest when you talk dirty in his ear. It shouldn’t be real, it probably _isn’t_ real, but you haven’t woken up yet, so you’ll take it while it lasts, while he’s here and spread out for you like a wet dream, rubbing precum up and down his little cock so that it glistens under your overhead light, begging to be licked up.

_I thought maybe you made me fall in love with you_ , is what he said that changed everything, his eyes twitching beneath the soft lids, a heavy darkness smudged under them like he hasn’t been sleeping without you down the hall. _But I think I was falling the whole time._

It’s remarkable, it’s a miracle, but what’s even wilder is that you _believe him,_ or at least you believe that he believes himself in this moment, which you think is enough for you to follow. He squeezes his cock in his palm as your gaze crawls unabashedly over his body, balls twitching and gathering like he’s already close for you. 

“So fucking pretty,” you praise, licking your lips, setting the water down on your dresser, forgotten. “What do you want?” you ask, because you need a place to start, a prompt so you don’t fall to pieces, flayed open by your own boundless, your wild desire that could burn you both up to ash if you're not careful. 

“Fuck,” he moans, head falling back, more precum leaking out onto his stomach and collecting there, making your mouth water. “To be...for you to treat me like your baby boy,” he breathes out, cheeks burning, like he’s _ashamed_ to admit this but wants it so badly that he’ll suffer through the shame. It guts you, stops your heart, because _god,_ there’s not a single thing in the world that drives you crazier than Lightning McQueen so desperately begging to be _yours._ Getting _off_ on being possessed by you. 

“Listen to you,” you breathe, unbuttoning your pants again and stepping out of them, kicking off your shoes and socks while he lies on the bed and touches himself with his eyes drinking you in, looking _pained_ like it _shatters_ him to know that you’re undressing just to join him in bed. “Want it so badly, need to be taken care of, told what to do.” 

“Yeah, just tell me...put me where you want me,” he gasps, smoothing his hand down to cup his balls, cock twitching, red and perfect against the pale of his stomach. “Wanna be good.” 

“God,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Take off your clothes first, lemme see you,” you instruct, throat tight as he sits up and pulls his shirt over his head and leaves his hair a sweat-damp ruin, falling over his brow in loose, messy curls. He shucks his jeans and is about to do the same to his briefs, but you decide you want those, want to smell them, want to feel how soaked the Y-front is after you tease him awhile. “Leave those,” you order, gesturing with your chin as you unbutton your shirt. He stares for a moment, eyes wide and shocked, like he can’t process you shirtless at the same time he takes in what you say, so you point to the briefs once you’re in nothing but your own boxers, and he whimpers and pulls them back up, carefully tucking his sweet little cock in under the elastic band with trembling fingers. “That’s it, that’s my boy,” you whisper, and he flops back down onto your bed in overwhelm, chest heaving with each breath, flush stained all the way down his sternum. 

“It’s good you're gonna tease me,” he says in a hush, reaching for your shoulders as you clamber down on to the mattress gingerly, bracketing his body with your knees, knowing it’s a position that your body won’t be able to handle for long without seizing up but wanting to be on top of him anyway for as long as you can stand it. “Because I’m embarrassingly close, you get me so worked up, s’crazy.” 

“I’m gonna tease,” you promise, kissing his neck, his throat, licking up his sweat and loving how he squirms and whimpers and breaks out in gooseflesh from the scrape of your mustache against his pulse. “And m’gonna make you come, over and over again. Gonna take what I want from you.” 

“Oh, my god,” he gasps, digging his fingers into your back, dragging them down and back up again, rough and clumsy. “Doc, please, _please_ take it, take me,” he begs, and that does you in, wrecks you, bashes your hull to pieces like a ship against a jagged shore, scattered to dust and washed away. You can smell the filthy bite of his fear-sweat, the musk and the salt inches away from your mouth, and that’s _it_ , that’s the first thing you want, you feel like you’ve wanted it for so long, like you’ve been _haunted_ by that yearning. So before your knees force you to move, you push one of his arms up over his head and scour your open mouth over the soft, golden hair there. 

He tenses and whines in his throat as you lick into him, but then he’s rocking his hips, shifting them so that he can hump against your thigh while you suck the maddeningly strong flavor of him out of his underarm hair, eyes shut tight, head bent like you’re praying and this is holy.

He tastes so fucking _good_ (this shouldn’t be _real,_ it probably _isn’t_ real) that an unexpected wave of tears rushes to your eyes, stinging as your throat tightens and you sob into Lightning McQueen’s skin, rubbing your face into him, heart _pounding_ so hard in your chest that you might actually die here, licking up his sweat. 

He lets you, he lets you do whatever you want. You kiss up his tricep, across his chest, flick your tongue over one of those perfect puffy nipples, use your teeth on it, suck until the pink of it turns a slick, cherry red. You can feel the thud of his heart right there under your open mouth, the press of your cheek, and it _sounds_ terrified, but you can tell that he _loves it,_ that he’s coming apart. His cock is achingly hard every time he manages to rut it against you, his hand keeps coming to scrub up through your hair, drawing you closer, suffocating you against his skin. 

You’re pretty sure that none of the girls he’s ever fucked have gotten him like this, ruined and shuddering with tears on his face, suck marks littered all over his pale chest, down the ladder of his ribs, as low as the layer of softness covering his abdominals. “My baby boy,” you praise between rough kisses, rubbing your chin into the tender skin beneath his navel, the stubble on your chin catching on the trail of pale hair there. You watch him get pink and raw as you lick the pure, overwhelming bite of salt from where he’s dripped precum all over himself. “Needed this, didn’t you? M’gonna suck it, swallow this perfect little cock,” you tell him, pushing his thighs apart, loving how he spreads so eagerly, far wider than you need to fit comfortably between them. “You ready for it? Need a break?” 

Something stuck between a frantic sob and a burst of laughter rips out of him as he squirms, spots of violent red on his cheeks, hair a sweaty mess across his brow. So beautiful, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, Lighting McQueen exactly as he _should_ be, where he belongs. Spread out and wrecked on your sheets in his wet underwear. “Please, please, _please,”_ he begs, pumping his hips, chasing the promise of your mouth. “I need it so _badly,_ I...god. I’ve made myself come so many times, thinking about how you called it a _mouthful._ I wanna fill up your mouth, don’t need a break, just you.” 

“Perfect little mouthful, absolutely gorgeous,” you sigh, exhaling directly onto it, kissing it through the fabric, which is rough and soaked against your lips. You gently suck him through it, smelling him in the cotton, overwhelmed to the point of breathlessness because you’re finally, _finally_ getting to submerge and lose yourself to the thing you want _most._ Have wanted since you were a boy, since you were his age, since you saw him cuffed and indignant in your courtroom, like every one of your fantasies come to life, incarnate before you. “Lift your hips, gonna take these off,” you tell him, hooking your thumbs into the elastic and pulling his briefs down over his cock. He wiggles messily out of them, and as soon as they’re off, he’s back to spreading his legs wide, showing himself to you. 

God, it makes your heart break. So little and sweet and _hard_ for you, shining in precum, bobbing in your hot, labored exhalations. “Everything you wanted?” he wheezes, looking down at you. 

“Mhmmmm,” you assure him, thumbing up the shaft, making him jump. He’s hot and sticky, and you’re nearly drooling, your heart is pounding in your chest like it might crack a rib. “You gonna feed me your come, baby boy?” you growl as you press your lips into his thigh. It comes out as an almost unintelligibly rough mumble against that tender skin, but he must hear you because he cries out, covers his face in his hands, rolls his hips lewdly. 

“Doc, _please,_ Jesus _Christ.”_

You don't suck him down right away, even though you _could,_ you could fit him right down your throat without a struggle. You just want to _taste,_ though, just want to breathe him in, savor him, so you take him in hand and lick the tip back and forth, swirling messy circles around the slit as he locks up and yells into your pillow, which he’s managed to grab and hold over his face. He tastes like heaven, just like you _knew_ he would. A sweeter, milder version of his sweat, the most perfect fucking thing, and without warning, your eyes are getting wet again, tears clumping your lashes and collecting at the corners. You kiss down his shaft, the thatch of his golden pubic hair, right to the very tip before you fit your lips round the crown and suck, the first nervy pulse of it so much that his balls start to tense and gather like he’s about to come. 

“Not yet,” you mumble around him, digging your thumbs hard into his inner thighs, spreading him wide again, loving the way that he’s flat-out _crying_ into your pillow, the sobs muffled and hiccuping. “Hold on for me a little longer, kid.” 

“S’too good,” he chokes out, hips thrusting shallowly. You hold him down, pin him so he can’t do that. 

“Stop chasing your orgasm,” you order, pulling off and rubbing your cheek against him, getting your spit all over yourself. “You’re fucking my mouth.” 

“You don't like that?” he asks, moving the pillow to look at you blearily through a mess of tears and sweat. 

“Nah, I love it,” you tell him, shaking your head. “Love you every way, just...you’re gonna come faster if you do that, so just lie there. Let me play with you, m’not done, not eager for you to be,” you explain. Then, because he’s looking at you like he has no idea what you’re saying, “It’s not a _race,_ you’re not driving, _”_ you add, voice humming against the underside of his cock and making him squirm. “I am.” 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , that’s hot,” he forces out through grit teeth, head thrashing as he retreats back behind the pillow. “Okay, fine, drive...I’ll just lie here. _God.”_

_“_ My good boy,” you praise, squeezing his thighs before taking him back into your lips, sucking him slowly and leisurely, just like he _needs,_ like you need. He does his best, whimpering and groaning and lifting his back off the mattress but trying to keep his hips still, and you _love_ seeing him struggle, love feeling the reflexive jumps and twitches of his cock against your tongue as he tries. 

Just when you feel him tensing up again, getting close, you pull off in a frothy mess of saliva and leave his cock needy and bobbing. He keens into the pillow, loud and frustrated and animal, then shuts right the fuck up as you tilt him back and suck his balls, tongueing one around in the heat of your mouth before moving to the other, grip bruisingly tight on his thigh. _God_ , you’ve never gotten to _do_ this to a boy, luxuriate in his body, take your time with him, _drown_ in him. You feel drunk, _moved,_ like this is the best thing you’ve ever done and ever will do: tasting every inch of Lighting McQueen’s cock, rubbing your lips over it, making his thighs raw with your chin as you fit the whole of him down your throat and swallow around it until you gag and pull off, gasping. You could do this forever, for the rest of your fucking life. _Please stay,_ you think desperately at some point, when his stomach starts spasming under your spread-wide fingers, holding him down. _Please stay right here, I’ll take care of you so fucking good. Spoil you until I die. Just stay._

It becomes evident when he can’t hold on any longer, his moans getting frantic and rhythmic, his legs clenching so hard that he keeps alternating between impossible tension and boneless collapsing. You groan around his cock, pulling off save for your lips around the crown, your hand rubbing him to keep him there as you say, “C’mon, baby, drop the pillow, let me hear you.” 

 

He tosses it away messily, arms splaying out to fist in your sheets as he sobs, voice hoarse and rough around the edges because you've been at this for a long, long time, and he’s worked so thin that he’s translucent. He sounds _perfect,_ so _fucking_ perfect that your heart stops, your cock twitches where you’re been grinding it into your own bed, and _you_ almost come right along with him. 

When he shoots off, you swallow him down, desperate to get every fucking drop, to make sure you suck him through the aftershocks, milk him so he's empty and twitching and wrecked. 

He lies there crying and shaking, and when you finally let him go, you are, too. 

“My fucking _god,”_ he trembles out, voice cracking over every other word, snagged and destroyed as he writhes in the sheets. “Did you...did you _know_ it would be like this?” 

“Like what?” you ask, coughing, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, which ends up being useless because you can't stay away from his cock, so in seconds, you’re back to rubbing your face all over it, slick and still hard, twitching as it begins to shrink. “This good?” 

“No, I knew _that,_ ”he grumbles, face in his hands so that his words come out in a wheezy muffle. You kiss him, inhale from his pubes, think about how badly you just want to _remain_ here, working him over and fraying him to bits. “I mean, like...did you _know_ I needed it like this? That I’d be...that I’d never fucking come back from it?” 

You smooth a tremulous palm up his quad, thumbing over the coarse golden hair and pressing a kiss there. “No,” you admit quietly, sitting up so that you can lie beside him, cradle his tear-sticky, flushed face, kiss him deep and messy, so he can taste how good his sweat is, his _come_ is. “I only hoped.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, SIGH! Here's the end, friends. Thank you ALL so much for reading this and taking this journey with me, this story is legit one of my favorites things I've ever written and I'm very proud to have shared it with you. I will be writing a sequel about their messy lives together and the navigation of their relationship soon, so stay tuned! 
> 
> TRULY THOUGH THANK YOU! I love you all.

It takes awhile for you to come down from the strung-out, thrumming place he sent you, and even then, you don’t feel _normal_ once you catch your breath. The blood is pounding in your ears, and everything sounds like it’s underwater; you can’t stop shivering and lurching, like the whole of you is a single raw nerve, like he _changed_ you, fundamentally altered your chemistry. 

It’s okay, though, because Doc kisses you through it, smooths his big warm palms all over your shoulders, your sides, your back, rubbing flickering muscle with broad strokes, whispering to you about how _good_ you are, how _perfect_ your come tastes, how _gorgeous_ you look right now, you look all the time. It’s so much at the same time it’s _exactly_ what you need, the last filament of gossamer keeping you attached to this world, preventing you from floating off into the ether or else sinking in static. He’s _got you,_ he’s told you so, and so you're sure of it. 

You don’t even realize that you’re half-hard again until he tells you, coming up for air after sucking at your pulse for a few seconds and murmuring against your ear, “Told you I was gonna make you come again. You’re already halfway there, baby.” He cups your cock in his palm and squeezes gently, and you whine in response, legs spasming as they clench, nervous, reflexive laughter bubbling out of you in a breathy burst.

“Yeah, but...when do I get to make _you_ come?” you ask, palming down his thigh, impatiently tugging at the leg of his boxers with a fist. “You covered it up again, I wanna _see it,”_ you remind him. You haven’t stopped thinking about it, the image of his thick cock flashing across your mind as you’ve been kissing him, sucking his tongue, feeling his hands all over your body. You _want_ it in this blind, scary way, crave it even though you don’t even really know what to _do_ with another man’s cock. You want him to teach you, want him to show you how to suck it good, how to take it up inside of you. You keep remembering what he told you, _I’d take care of you,_ and your stomach curls and drops again as you rub up against him, palming over the front of his boxers to clumsily feel him through the fabric. 

 

“I don’t need that, I’d rather eat you up,” he says, nuzzling into your neck, nipping at it as you squirm. “I get off on that.” 

“Yeah, but m’ _greedy,_ okay, and I’ve been _dying_ to see you. I think that when I said you could watch me, maybe this was what was in the back of my head and, like, buried the whole time. Being curious about this. Wanting it,” you admit, squeezing his shaft through the damp fabric. 

He makes a cut-off groaning sound in your ear, and you shiver, turning your head to catch his mouth and kiss him hard, lick up all his noises. It’s so _hot,_ to hear this grown man _moaning_ over you, to know that you’re capable of affecting someone usually so composed and sarcastic and unreadable. Doc has so many walls up, and here he is, rubbing his cock into your palm, gasping in your ear. It makes you want to cry with how much you love him. “Fuck, kid,” he chokes out, mauling down your back and stopping just short of your ass cheek. He keeps _doing_ this, touching you everywhere but your ass, even though you keep trying to push it into his palms. You want him to touch you there, but asking for it feels too desperate and embarrassing because he probably has a good reason why he’s avoiding it, like maybe he thinks he’ll lose control and flip you over, shove it in. The idea simultaneously thrills and terrifies you, knots your gut up even tighter.

“How about you touch it and I watch?” you offer, thumbing over the crown, getting the cotton all wet with his precum. “You got to watch me so many times, and I’d just...fuck. It got so I couldn't stand not watching you.” 

He grips your shoulder tightly and pushes you away, thumbing into your bicep, the ditch of your elbow, as low as your wrist before he covers your hand in his own, feeling your jerky, awkward motions as you touch him. “You wanna see how I do it? How I like to touch it? Make myself come?” 

_Fuck,_ Jesus, you love how deep and rough his voice gets when he’s talking dirty to you, you want it right up against your lips, against your pulse, gutting you. “Please,” you whimper, letting go of him, curling your fingers around yourself instead. “Show me.” 

He gets his cock out of his boxers, the weight of it in his hand so fucking mouth-watering and intimidating and _good_ that you make a sound without meaning to, teasing up your own shaft with your fingers. It’s a relief that you’ve come once already because you can touch yourself without worrying about losing control and finishing before he wants you to. “God, look at you, licking your lips,” Doc sighs, fisting his cock long and slow, grip twisting at the tip. It’s so _controlled_ , just like the rest of him, just like how he _drives_ , and you can feel your cheeks heating up at the sight. “You like that? Seeing my hand on my cock?” 

“God, yes,” you murmur, watching attentively as he smears his thumb through the fluid beading at the slit, making the whole crown look slick in this way that you can’t help but imagine sucking on. Without realizing it, you’re shifting down the bed, bringing your face closer so that you can see every detail. The angle of his wrist, his broad knuckles, the way his careful doctor’s hands pause every once in awhile to let his cock tense and throb in the confines of his grip, firm and solid. 

“That’s it, get a good look, baby boy,” he groans, and you whimper, pumping your cock harder. “God, look so good, watching your old man.” 

“What do you think about?” you ask, mouth flooded as you _smell_ him, musky and clean, a new sharpness amid the crisp laundry smell of his sheets. “When you get yourself off? Do you think of me?” 

“Kid, _fuck,”_ he curses, hand quickening, the muscles in his forearm tensed and flickering, so fucking hot. “Since I met you, since before you pulled your cock out and showed me, I was thinking about it.” 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Doc,” you hiss, inching closer, getting up on all fours and wavering beside him, not even sure what you mean to do, what you want to do, just that you want _more,_ want to inhale from him, feel the heat and weight of his cock against your cheek. “You know what I think about? When I make myself come?” 

“What?” he manages, even though he sounds like he can hardly breathe. He's looking at your ass now that you’ve got it somewhere near his face, leaning over his cock and thinking about drooling onto it, about seeing if he’ll let you suck. “Jesus, you look so pretty,” he moans then, brushing the knuckles of his free hand up the back of your thigh. 

“You can touch it,” you offer, rocking your hips, arching your back low and deep, silently _begging_ him to pull it apart and look again, maybe rub his fingers over your hole like you’ve been doing to yourself. “I think about a lot of things, about you watching me, about you, like...losing control while you watch me, touching my cock,” you admit, voice coming out so reedy and wrecked that you hardly recognize it. “I used to just think of, like, faceless girl-shaped girls or something, but pretty much as soon as I moved in and realized that you were gay, I thought about you, thinking about me. Touched myself over it. But lately, the thing that pushes me over the edge every time? Fantasizing about when you spit on my ass...was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me until today.” 

It falls out of you like a confession, hushed and shameful. He gasps, though, squeezes his cock as it flexes and precum sluices out of the slit and drips down into the silver hair on his lower belly, the space you've been imagining rubbing your face into for the last few minutes. “Fuck, son, give me...here,” he says as he grabs your thigh, tugging you close, manhandling you so that you’re forced to straddle him backward, your hungry mouth so fucking close to his cock for a second before he grips your hips and tugs you back, away from it. “It’s okay, if I touch you here? You want that?” 

“Oh, _god,_ please, yes, please,” you groan, suddenly mindless with desire, clumsy and half-blind as your vision whites out. You have no idea what he wants exactly, but you can feel his breath on the curve of your ass cheek as he palms up it roughly, squeezing like you've been _dying_ for him to, pulling you apart, making you cry out. “You gonna do it again?” you ask, thinking about the thick hot smear of his saliva, how it changed your fucking life forever. You feel his exhalations getting closer and closer, the damp heat of them _maddeningly_ close before suddenly, he’s licking right over your hole, keeping you spread as he kisses and groans and, _fuck,_ Christ, _fuck,_ you lose your goddamned _mind._

You collapse onto your elbows, face pressed somewhere near his hip bone, his knuckles rubbing against your throat as he continues to jack himself off while _licking your ass,_ sucking your hole, scrubbing you raw with your facial hair. 

You didn't even really know this was _possible,_ that people _did this,_ let alone that Doc might want to do it to _you_ , that you’d _like it._ Love it, even. It’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever felt, so wet and messy and hot and incomprehensible, _vulnerable,_ your crack split there right in his face while he _inhales from you,_ gasping before he dives back in, flicking his perfect, velvet-soft tongue back and forth over your fluttering hole. You're fucking sobbing into him, rubbing you face back and forth over his quad muscles, drooling into the hair there, sobbing again because you’re falling _apart._ You’re pretty sure you’d be shattered in bits around him if he wasn’t gripping you so hard with that one hand, spreading you wide for his tongue. 

You can’t believe how _hungry_ your hole feels. This happened when you touched yourself here, too, but to a lesser degree, without as much madness. You’re _aching,_ though, hollowing your back and pushing against him so that you can get everything, _everything_ you can from him. 

It’s only when he starts to rhythmically moan against you, fuck _into_ your hole with his tongue in time with tugging on his own cock that you realize he’s close, and, _Jesus,_ you want him to come so badly but not here. Not on his stomach, inches away from your face, your mouth. His tongue is so _deliciously good,_ spearing you open like this, it’s fucking _maddening,_ but it’s not enough. You’re rocking back into his face desperately, making sounds you've never heard yourself make before, but all you can fucking think about is how you want him inside of you. Filling you with come, cock sliding in and out of the hole he’s made so spit-messy, like _he_ wants you there, too, under him, around him. 

You force yourself to pull away, to roll off him, gasping. He follows you, eyes bright and concerned and face all wet, and before he can ask you if you’re okay or what’s happening, you spin around and kiss him, hard. 

He tastes bitter and salty and dirty, it must be _you,_ and it should be gross, but it’s _not_ because it’s on _Doc,_ and you want him so fucking badly that it destroys all logic, all former certainty. “Fuck me,” you rasp as you pull away, kissing up his jaw, down his throat, desperately licking the stubble-rough skin there. You need it, you don’t care if you can’t come again, you don’t _care_ if it hurts, or if somewhere deep inside yourself you're still scared of the idea. You _need_ it. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” you chant right against his ear, rubbing your whole body against his, reaching for his cock, threading your fingers through his around it so that you can grip the slick girth of it together. “Fuck me, Doc, please. M’not kidding.” 

“Jesus,” he groans, making a fist in your hair and pulling, rolling you over so that you’re on your back, gasping. “I won’t be able to do it long. You’ve got me worked up, gonna come the second I get inside you,” he tells you, scraping his beard up your neck before biting you behind the ear, breath coming out in messy gales. “We can wait...I can finger you, eat you out more. Could eat you out forever, baby, you taste so fucking good,” he tells you then, and, _god, fuck, no,_ it’s too much and he’s _too hot_ and you need his cock splitting you open and filling you up or you’ll _die_. 

“ _I_ can’t wait,” you whine, licking at his neck, his shoulder, wherever you can reach. You love how his skin is soft and gathered around his throat a bit from age, so soft that you can get it between your teeth without working too hard, threaten to bite down harder. “Please,” you growl before letting him go, rolling your hips. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s already been perfect, I just...I need it too bad, m’going crazy. You can just stick it in and come, I don’t care. I just...I need it inside me.” 

“Okay, fuck, m’giving it to you,” he growls, pushing you into the mattress on your back and hiking your legs up over his shoulders in one single, magic, fluid motion. It makes you start to hyperventilate a little, stomach spasming until he spreads one of his big palms over it, steadying you. “Gonna be so sweet to you, baby boy. You just relax, lemme me take care of you.” 

You wipe the tears from your eyes with shaky hands and nod because you don’t have words left to tell him that you’re not scared, that you’re not even _worried,_ really, you’re just so fucking _happy,_ so _moved_ that he wants you like this. He wiggles out of his boxers and folds you in half as he reaches for his bedside drawer and rifles inside for a few seconds before pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube. You sort of forgot about those, thought he was just gonna ease into you slicked by the frothy, perfect heat of his spit. “No condom,” you tell him, reaching out and clumsily taking it out of his hand, swiping the air messily like a cat. “Want you to come in my ass.” 

“You’re tested and clean?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, his thumb moving slowly and gently over your hole, making you shiver and tense up. 

“Yeah, did it, like, six months ago,” you tell him, reaching out and curling your fingers around his cock, bringing it up between your cheeks so that it just lies there over your twitching hole, hot and perfect. “God, feels so good already,” you whimper. 

“S’gonna be messier like this,” he tells you, folding you tighter and kissing you, rough and hungry and desperate. “Really wet...dirty.” 

“Jesus, _fuck,_ yeah, I want that, want it messy. I come thinking about your spit in me I want...want your come, Doc, please,” you beg, raking the nails of your free hand down his back, where his skin is hot and sweat-damp.

“Christ,” he hisses, gripping your ass, rubbing your hole slowly, sweetly. “I get this bareback? My baby boy’s tight hole?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble, totally gone, forgetting every word you ever knew as he squeezes lube out onto his fingers and slicks you up so that you’re dripping down onto your balls. “All yours, made for your cock.” 

“Fuck, you should hear yourself, the shit you say when you’re like this,” he growls, sinking a thick finger deep inside. You moan gratefully, feeling yourself flutter and resist before you relax as he pushes into the soft, sucking give. It feels so fucking _good,_ so much better than your own fingers, wetter and gentler and thicker, all at once. “Enough to drive an old man crazy.” 

He kisses you as he fingers you open, his movements slow and deep and thorough until you’re trembling all over and moaning ceaselessly into his mouth, each stroke more nervy and hot than the last, burning in the best, most overwhelming way. Just when you think you can’t last another fucking second, he pulls away, face ruined and flushed as he presses it into your throat, panting. “You ready for me to fuck this sweet hole?” he asks, crooking his fingers and making you cry out. 

“Doc,” you sob, scouring your lips on his stubble, rocking against his fingers, fucking yourself on them. “Yes, promise, need it.” 

He withdraws knuckle by knuckle, and you keen the whole time at the loss, but then he’s shifting, he’s kissing the tears up off your cheek, he's aligning the thick, blunt, _burning hot_ head and pushing. 

It seems impossible, that something so thick can fit in your body, but as soon as you tilt your hips instinctually, he’s sliding right in, easy and smooth, an unbelievable, relentless stretch that rips a breathless yelp out of you. He stops, trembling there half-buried in your hole, kissing your face, soft and sweet. “No, don’t stop, it’s _so_ good, so good, Doc, your cock is so fucking big,” you babble, hands all over his back, his neck, his scalp as you try to draw him closer. “Fuck me,” you plead, and he curses, sinks deeper, inch by inch, always more, even when you think there _can’t be,_ that he _must_ be fully sheathed because there’s no room left in you.

“You feel like heaven, baby, so fucking tight for me, so good, opening up like this,” he prays, words staccato and all breath, punctuated by half-gasps as he pushes deeper. “Made for it, Jesus, you were right, made for me to fuck.” 

Your wordless groan tapers off and shatters into a sob as you feel his balls rest against your taint, the whole of his cock in you, coring you. It’s fucking _insane,_ the pulsing heat of it, the way you can feel each throb, each twitch. “S’perfect,” you tell him, sniffling, turning your head to rub tears and snot into your pillow. You’re a mess, your cock has gone semi-soft on your stomach from the shock of being filled, you know you’re flushed the deepest, most embarrassing red, but you don’t even _care._ You feel beautiful right now, Doc buried inside you while he kisses your face, tells you how good you are, how amazing you feel. “M’so fucking in love with you,” you confess, voice coming out breathless and wrecked and raw. 

He shuts his eyes and makes a broken sound, chest pressing so hard against yours that you can feel his heartbeat, in his cock and in his ribcage, every inch of you humming in time with him. “Loved you the second I saw you,” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing it hard and graceless, licking it. “Tried to send you away so it wouldn’t break me.” 

“Not gonna break you,” you say back, shifting your hips, trying to ride his cock, encouraging him to move. “Fuck me,” you say again, the whole of your insides replaced with this, with him and how badly you need him, how _desperately_ you need to be hollowed out and split in half and filled up with come. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck—”

He kisses you silent so that your words get crushed to nothingness, right as he pulls out and slams back in, making you both cry out into each other’s mouths, everything messy with spit. And then, finally, fucking _finally,_ he’s pounding into you rhythmically, breathless and trembling as you rock under him, ass clutching and spasming and burning. It’s good, it’s _so good,_ and you can’t stop moaning and chanting his name in a mess of profanity, so he doesn't stop, just braces his hands on the undersides of your thighs and holds you steady while he quickens his pace, pausing a few times to adjust or circle his hips slow and sweet and deep. 

It _does_ hurt but in a _good_ way; it _aches,_ deeply and profoundly, like he’s touching your _heart,_ and when he locks up and chokes out a groan against your throat and comes, you feel like he’s mending the cracks in it from the inside out. 

“Oh, my god, _yes,_ Doc, yeah,” you whimper, tears all over your face as you rub them into his shoulder, his neck, your hands clutching at his sides, hole pulsing around him as he fills you up. “Thank you, thank you,” you murmur over and over again as he gives you his full weight, collapsing on top of you so that you can hardly breathe. You don't care, it’s what you want. To be crushed under his weight, stuffed full of his cock, painted inside with his come. “Thank you.” 

He eventually pushes off and sits back without pulling out, trembling as he looks down at you through a tear-haze, tracing all over your body light and tender, stroking your chest, your arms, your shoulders, your stomach, your still-oversensitive cock. “Jesus, kid,” he mumbles, shaking his head, thumbing down to the place where you’re still joined, the stretched tight ring of your rim. “Took that like a pro.” 

“Can feel your come in me,” you slur messily, flattening one of your palms over your heart to feel the frantic, senseless beat as it slowly begins to even out. Your whole body feels wrung out, ass beginning to feel sore now that you’ve come down a bit. “Best thing ever.” 

“M’gonna pull out now, and it’s gonna leak all over. If it gets on the sheets you’re sleeping on that side since you’re the one who didn’t want to use a condom,” he says, shifting back, withdrawing in a slick of lube and spit and white. It’s a weird, out-of-control feeling, and it makes you whimper, face crumpling as his fingers sweep over your used hole, collecting what he can of the mess. “Provided you want to sleep in here at all,” he adds, and your eyes snap open because you might be half-dead but not half-dead enough to get a word in about _that._

_“_ Of _course_ I want to sleep in here, fuck, where else would I sleep? Back in the guest room? With come in my ass? No thank you,” you say messily, lolling bonelessly on the bed as he rolls you over to examine you, pulling your cheeks apart to thumb over your sloppy hole. You wince, whining low in your throat. “Too much.” 

“Just checking to make sure you’re okay,” he says gently, bending down and pressing one more wet, open-mouthed kiss to your core before pulling back and mumbling. “God, prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. All pink and puffy from me.” 

Your face burns as you hide a wild, reflexive smile in his sheets. _Yours,_ you think, heart clenching like a fist, like something fit to shatter. _Yours._

——

You wake up disoriented and in the dark, startling out of your sleep so abruptly it’s as if you had a nightmare. You scour your hazy memory for the fragments of it, but nothing comes save for a deluge of sharp, technicolor images from the night before. Lightning’s strong but svelte legs over your shoulders, his mouth open and wet and swollen and moaning, the bittersweet spill of him over your tongue. 

They could all be from a dream, of course. You’d be worrying about exactly this if you couldn’t still _smell_ him in the air, on your own mustache, the musky bite of it delicious and sharp and overwhelming. You lick your lips, smell your fingers. Inhale the sharp, heady reality of him to ground you, prove all of that actually _happened:_ he begged for you, he told you he loved you, soft and sweet and raw, right up against your ear while you sunk into the fire of his body inch by inch, thinking you might die from how fucking good it felt. _He’s real,_ you remind yourself, knuckles pressed to your lips as you find your bearings in the dark. 

You can feel the heat of his body beside yours, warm and sprawled out on his stomach with his outer arm pressed to your side. You roll over to look at him even though it's too dark to make out anything other than an indistinct shape in the shadow of your sheets, a steady rise and fall to his chest. You want to touch him, and then you realize you _can,_ so you do. Gently so as not to wake him, just your palm ghosting across the soft ruin of his hair, petting it, fingertips razing over his scalp. _God,_ you love him so much it hurts, feels like a wound untouchably deep in your chest, aching with each inhalation. Even though he's _here,_ even though he _let you in,_ it still hurts to love him this way. You wonder if that’s a premonition of sorts, if it means you’re destined to be wrecked by the rage of this and lose him inevitably, or if you're just so unused to feeling _anything_ good that the sweetness hasn't caught up to you yet. 

With your fingers tangling in his hair, you try to slow your heart down, try to relax. It’s hard, though, when your whole body feels sweat-sticky, when you’re just gonna lie here and obsess over every crease, every place you’re touching yourself. You don't usually sleep naked, and you feel exposed even under the sheet, so you decide the best thing you can do if you want to sleep at _all_ is to get up and take a shower, even though the mere _idea_ of leaving your bed when there’s a gorgeous well-fucked _boy_ sleeping in it scares you, breaks your heart. You’re sure he probably won’t go anywhere in your absence, but you don't _know_ if this is the last time he’ll _be_ here, if things might change when he wakes up and the reality sinks in. Of course that makes you want to stay and savor every second of it, live in this brief, wild universe where you can hold Lightning McQueen while he sleeps, pretend he’s truly yours, for real and for good. 

You extricate yourself as best you can. In careful, muted motions, even though the bed groans as you slide off it and the floorboards squeak under your feet. You grab your robe and a towel, and once you feel your way to the bathroom and flick the light on, your eyes sting in the sudden harsh glare. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror, and for a few long moments, you study your exhausted-looking reflection, scrub your fingers through your hair, squint because your glasses are still in the kitchen. The longer you stare, the stranger and more stunned you feel. _You,_ this man, old and weathered, broken and repaired again like the frame of the car he nearly killed himself in fifty years ago. _This man_ has kissed Lightning McQueen. And furthermore, this is the man Lightning McQueen _wants to kiss._

It’s almost impossible to believe. 

Not because you’re objectively unattractive or too old in a broad, general sense. You don’t look terrible, you still have hair, your skin is wrinkled but not excessively so. You can pick out your younger self among the folds and angles, and even then, the way you look now is perfectly acceptable. It’s more because he’s _so good,_ so _desirable,_ he could have anyone in the _world,_ andit seems improbable but also _dangerous_ that it would be you. 

The same things that make you good looking for your age are the same things that make you so vastly different from _him._ Yourhairis more than half-gray at this point, you have lines around your eyes, and there’s sagging skin at your throat no matter how fit you’ve struggled to stay. You’ve got twenty years left in you if you’re lucky, while he’s just _now_ coming into the good years, the strong years. He should find some go-go dancer, one of those circuit party types who would be _thrilled_ to turn some pretty-boy newly experimenting NASCAR driver from Mississippi out and show him the ropes. Someone who can keep up with him. His speed, his ambition, which will only _grow_ at the same time you inevitable wind down. It makes no _sense_ that he'd choose you unless you’re the only man who’s convenient, who’s safe. A stand-in for something better yet to come, keeping his cock hard and his bed warm while he figures himself out. 

He says he's in love with you, and you think he means it but only because he _doesn't know_ any better, doesn’t know what love is in the first place. Maybe he only feels that with certainty because there’s no one like _him_ around, no better match that he could set his sights on, make the object of his fresh, new desire _._ You woke something up in him, but that doesn't mean he’s gonna end here. There’s a whole world out there, one hundred thousand other men. Younger men, more handsome men, _happier_ men. You have so little to _offer_ a boy like him, save for the love you have. Hungry, desperate, _ugly_ , even. You love him with such terrifying fierceness, but it’s the love of a husk, of a man who’s denied himself his own desire for _decades_ out of fear, out of preferring loneliness because at least you could _control_ that. Boys light Lightning deserve better, you think. 

In the shower, you let the water cascade over your back, drumming away at you while you stare at the tile under your feet in a haze of steam, thinking about how much you don't want to wash him off your face, your hands. You want to be able to breathe him in forever in case he speeds off into the city, leaves you here in the desert to die, his teacher, his mentor, but only that. You also wonder why the fuck you always _do_ this, push away the things you want the very most, dissect them until you shatter your own trust before anyone else can do it. Because if you’re only longing for these sorts of things like an oasis shimmer in the horizon, they cant hurt you. Nothing you deny yourself can hurt you, only the sting of the denial itself. And that’s yours, its pain by your _own hand._ In so many ways, this is so much easier to swallow. 

You jump as the bathroom door cracks open. “Hey,” a sleepy voice calls. He walks in, naked like he doesn't care one bit about it, hair mussed up, a blurry strawberry blond shape through the fogged up glass of the shower, which he gently raps his knuckles against. “Can I come in?” 

Your instinct is to say _no,_ but logically you have no reason for why not, you’ve _pushed your tongue_ up inside his ass, sharing a shower with him seems like an absurd thing to fear, to shy away from. “Sure, kid,” you eventually sigh, cupping your soft cock like he hasn’t seen it already, hasn’t milked it to finish inside him. _Fuck,_ so perfect, the image still white-hot and glorious in your mind, the ghost sensation making you shiver. “You couldn't sleep either?” you ask him as he pushes the door open and follows you inside, shivering. 

He’s blinking lazily, rubbing at his freckled shoulders as he side-steps under the spray with you, skin brushing yours, so clearly _unconcerned_ with touching you. You wonder what it’s like, to shed your fear like that, to move through the world so open and curious. “Nah, I was sleeping great until you got up. I must have sensed it...felt you leave.” He reaches for you then, smooths his palms up your chest before swaying into you, opening his mouth on your neck and licking idly, sleepily. “Still want me?” he whispers. 

Your stomach twists and you curl your arms around his lower back immediately, pulling him toward you, crushing him into your torso where he melts, humming. The hot water slicks you both up, makes him slippery, but still you hold on. “Are you kidding?” you murmur against his mouth as he bumps it up against yours clumsily for a kiss. “I’ll want you forever...until I die.” 

“Don’t die,” he tells you then, thumbing experimentally over your nipple as he licks your lips, kisses you so deeply that you stumble and get water in your ear, holding his hips tight enough that you’re worried he’ll break in your hands. “You wanna hear something dumb?” he asks as he pulls away from the kiss, tilting back so his hair gets all wet, slicks golden against his head. “Some stupid thing I thought when I was half-asleep?” 

“Sure,” you tell him, cuffing him on the back of his neck and drawing him close as he rubs his face into your shoulder, pretending that you’re humoring him rather than dying to know it all, every single messy, silly thing he thinks of. “Let’s hear it.” 

“I know it’s stupid, that it was only, like, one minute? But when I woke up and you were gone, I got so scared you didn’t...that you’d decided against it. Against _this,_ ” he confesses, and it’s too much, it makes the pain in your chest become even more sharp and acute as you hold him in your arms possessively, breathe him in, glide your hands all over the soft slick of his skin while he scrubs his face against your throat like he needs you just as fucking _badly._

“You're gonna have to work a little harder if you wanna get rid of me,” you tell him, sliding your palms down to his ass and squeezing, hefting him up a bit so that he whimpers. “M’here, kid. It’s...a lot, and my mind’s trying to play tricks on me over it, but m’here. You don’t have to worry about me not _wanting_ you. It’s all I do. ” 

“Okay,” he murmurs, licking your Adam’s apple as he slides his hands all over your back in tentative, experimental strokes. “I _know,_ I know it, but it’s good to hear you say it.” 

You stand there quietly as the water pounds down, trying to keep your breath even as he rubs his palms all over you, touches you like you’ve been touching him. Thorough and hungry and curious and reverent, broad strokes over your thighs, your hips, your shoulders, your stomach, your pectorals. His head drifts to your shoulder, but _still_ he touches, carding fingers up into your hair, down on either side of your spine, curiously into the dark, furred crack of your ass as he presses a broken gasp into you. “You feel so fucking _good,”_ he tells you. “It’s unreal, makes me dizzy.” 

“Don’t pass out on me,” you tell him gruffly, even though you’re _moved_ to be touched like this, terribly hesitant to move too much lest you scare him off. 

“Won’t,” he promises, dragging one hand between you to cup your soft cock with his palm, gently squeezing, just feeling the weight of you. 

You want to ask him what he’s doing, but you _know_ because you _remember._ What it was like to touch a man for the first time, to really feel his body without fear that he’d suddenly change his mind and hurt you, shove you away, try to kill you. McQueen is the first man you’ve touched in so, so long, and it feels like a baptism, it feels like absolution. The most complete incarnation of every perfect dream and imperfect memory of a past marked in longing. But this? You are his very, very first. He’s never gotten to do it before, feel the sweet spongy softness of a soft cock in his palm, never gotten to have his nipples rubbed raw by another man’s chest hair chafing against him. You’re his _first_ man _,_ his _first_ cock, the first rough scrape of stubble to darken the insides of his tender thighs. 

And you’ve been that messy, terror-stricken first for lots of men but never like this. Never for someone you loved, for someone who loved you _back_ , supposedly. Never without the pressure of time or space hastening everything so that it’s forever frantic. 

It seems impossible that you could be giving him what you were once given only richer, sweeter, deeper, magnificently _slower._ You remember doing these things in dark rest-stops off the highway, in the backseats of cars, furtive and rushed. You get him in the shower of your own home, he’s going to fall asleep in your _bed._ You feel so lucky and overwhelmed in this moment that you have to wipe your eyes in his hair, squeezing him so tightly that the air huffs out in an audible gasp. “You like all this? It isn’t too much?” you ask him, thumbing over the ridge of his shoulder blade. 

“It’s...fuck, s’the best thing I've ever felt,” he murmurs, drawing both his palms up to your throat, pulling back just to look up at you. The blue of his eyes looks broken open, wet and needy and _honest,_ honest more than anything else. And that smooths your fears a little bit, at least for now. It’s hard to imagine he's lying or confused when he’s _clearly,_ palpably _here_ with you. Even _you_ can’t rewrite that bleeding honesty in his eyes. _My boy,_ you think, thumbing into the dark circles under them, inhaling his sleep breath. 

You decide it doesn’t matter if you’re old, if you’ll be slowing down just as he’s speeding to reach a plateau miles ahead of you. You can tell that you’re exactly what he needs right _now_ , and you’re too weak to care about how that might wreck you down the line as it changes. His lips are swollen and pink, and he’s licking them before pressing them to yours, moving his head so that your mustache scrapes his upper lip like he wants that burn. “Am _I_ too much?” he asks, pulling away, thumbing along the line of your jaw. “I know this isn’t _new_ for you, not like it is for me. I’m a mess, I don’t wanna sleep, I don’t want _you_ to sleep, I just wanna make out with you forever. M’sorry, if that’s, like...if it’s overwhelming for you. You can ask for space.” 

“Baby,” you say gently, eliciting a gasp that ghosts out onto your chin as he tilts his head. “This is new for me, too.” 

You're overwhelmed, but you _don’t_ want space. You want to crawl inside his ribcage and stay there, take his heart in your hands and clutch it, never let go. You can’t say these things, not yet, but you try to spell them out in your kisses, in the bruises your fingers leave on his hips. _My boy_ ,you think. _At least for right now._


End file.
